The Knight and the Prince
by Lauralot
Summary: Joker decides he wants to play mind games with Batman, and brings the Scarecrow along. Somewhat slash. Sequel to Say That We're Sweethearts Again.
1. Ammonium Thioglycolate

Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any of its characters/settings.

AN: This is sort of a slash story, but almost entirely from the Joker's side only, and about half of that are only mind games. There are also mentions of a past relationship between the Joker and the Scarecrow.

If you've never read my fics before, that's fine. This is technically a sequel, but really, you can read it without having read the prior fics. If I ever post a chapter dealing directly with something from a previous story, I'll mention it in the author's note at the start of the chapter.

* * *

His hair still smelled faintly of ammonium thioglycolate. It was to be expected, he conceded, given that it had only been three days since he'd permed it, and God knew the scent still lingered in the filthy bathroom of the apartment he was staying in, where he'd given himself the perm. It wasn't a bad smell, after one adjusted—though at first it was worse than the piss of a cat fed only on asparagus—and actually kind of pleasant, after he'd been able to wash his hair again, but still.

He didn't want Batman to know that he'd _tried._

The thing about proclaiming himself an agent of chaos was that he had to hide it when he did plan things. Otherwise people would think him a hypocrite. And while he couldn't really give a shit about what _people _thought, the fact of the matter remained that under that lovely mask, the Bat was technically a person. That annoyed him; in a just world, he and Batsy would be on a higher plane of existence, removed from all the stupid, ordinary people Batman was so concerned with protecting. Just him, and the Batman, and the world as their playground.

Well, the animals could stay as well. The Joker had nothing against animals; just people. He was rather fond of dogs. And giraffes. Giraffes were almost as ridiculous as the platypus in design but managed a sense of grace and dignity at the same time. Probably because of their height. The Joker had always wanted a giraffe. He'd thought of stealing one from the Gotham Zoo, but where would he put it?

Besides, the Joker was no vegetarian. He and the Batman would need the animals for food at some point.

He supposed there would have to be some other people in this utopia anyway. Bats would be so _boring _without some cannon fodder to defend.

Anyway, the Joker happened to care a great deal about what Batman thought. In some cases, at least. He couldn't care less when Bats went off about how disgusting Joker's actions were, or how he had a rule he wasn't going to break, no matter how tempting the clown made it. Those speeches were all the same, and when Batman started on one, all the Joker tended to hear was "blah blah blah virtue blah blah Gotham blah evil blah sick blah blah JOKER blah blah rules blah blah BATMAN blah." With the important bits capitalized for emphasis.

He'd usually zone out at these moments, and end up giggling about something else. Which Batman didn't like. Good. He was cute when he was angry. Or angrier, Batsy always seemed mad for stupid reasons, like a bunch of people dying or an overpass being blown up. He really needed to relax.

Still, even with the massive stick shoved up his ass and his silly moral code, Batman was capital-I Important to him. And he didn't want Bats to realize the effort that had gone into tonight; the hours it had taken to perm his hair, do the face paint, hunt down his dress and shoes, and find just the right purse to store all his things.

They weren't _all _in his purse, of course. He'd need a handbag the size of a suitcase to carry them all. Many were still in the purple trench coat he carried over one arm. The purse was nearly stuffed, though, with the usual things like lipstick and his cell phone and also an assortment of knives, garrotes, scissors, piano wire, a handgun, a grenade, and a can of Mace.

This was Gotham City, after all. A girl could never be too careful walking the streets alone at night.

But the Batman wouldn't appreciate the effort that had gone into setting this up, when he tracked down the Joker. And the Joker had made sure the Batman would track him down this time. He wondered if he'd make it all the way to the Palisades before Bats caught up with him, or if the Caped Crusader would make his dramatic arrival beforehand. It was sure to be dramatic; duty-driven as Batsy claimed to be, he was more dramatic than a teenage girl. Not to mention totally self-obsessed, though he always said he cared about the people over himself. He never even noticed all effort the Joker's plans must take.

Like when he'd stuffed those corpses full of joker cards. Bats didn't appreciate how much time it took to collect that many joker cards; he hadn't even thought to ask what the Joker had done with the rest of the decks.

He'd _have _to notice the dress tonight—Joker had taken special cares to make sure of that—but he wasn't likely to pick up on any of the other work that had gone into this. Which was good; the Joker was meant to be chaotic, and knowing the thought he put into his plans would detract from their impact. Even so, every now and then he did feel a longing for a 'that's creative' or 'I'm stunned,' or even 'what goes on in your head to come up with this, you sick bastard?'

Oh well. Batsy was a career-driven man, and the Joker wouldn't love him nearly so much if he wasn't.

A passing car honked its horn at him, some punk yelling something obscene through the window. They either hadn't got a close look at him, or they were just sick freaks. Joker smirked, feeling amused, flattered, and insulted at once. _It's rude, _he reflected, _to honk at people. Only jackasses do that._ He seemed to recall someone telling him that once, long ago, though he couldn't remember who or the circumstance. Maybe he'd only read it somewhere, or watched it. He hadn't been lying to his psychiatrist when he said his past often got mixed up with things he'd seen on TV. Though he had been lying when he said he remembered spending his childhood as a red-haired little mermaid with a seagull friend.

Well, therapy was so _dull_ if you didn't mix it up a bit. Who could blame him?

Joker stepped over a shattered beer bottle and reflected, with a twinge of regret, that heels started to hurt after a while. Maybe he should have gone with flats. He also reflected that he was in a bad part of the city, still. Not that he was worried. So far only one man had bothered him—too drunk and too stupid to know how he was harassing—and on the off chance he'd survived the blood loss, that guy would never be able to hurt another girl again. He was lacking a couple of vital bits for that now.

No, the Joker's only concern was the distance of the walk. Maybe he should steal a car. Or at least switch out these shoes for something that didn't make his feet throb. Maybe—

Some bastard came sprinting through the alley Joker had the misfortune to be walking in front of, knocking into him without so much as a stop or even an apology called over the shoulder as he went on running. The _nerve _of some people! This was the problem with society, today. Well, society's biggest problem was that it existed at all, but this was a definite smaller, supporting issue. There was just no excuse for rudeness.

His rendezvous with the Batman could wait, for a minute. He turned in pursuit of this boor, hand shuffling in his purse for something deadly. The words 'Ex_cuse _me' began to form on his lips—as a substitute for the decidedly less ladylike 'Hey, asshole!'—and then died as he realized the sprinting man appeared to be wearing a burlap sack on his head.

"Jonny! Hey!" No response. He was either being exceptionally rude or he was running from something terrible. Either way, he owed the Joker an apology, so the clown took off sprinting after him. "Scarecrow!" He grabbed his friend's arm.

Still running, Scarecrow turned his head, Jonny's eyes wide with shock and confusion through holes in the burlap. "J-Joker?" His gaze flickered up and down. "What happened to your hair?"

It figured that the dress wouldn't faze him. Joker wondered, briefly, with a note of something that was not quite anxiety, if that meant this trick had gotten old. But no, the oldest tricks were the best and besides, tonight's attire had been chosen to affect the Batman, not the Straw man. "Permed it." He tossed his hair. "You like?"

"I—" He was panting for air. The Joker couldn't decide if he was out of breath or panicking. Probably both, the man was jumpier than an abused rabbit. "I don't have t-time for this—"

"Don't have time?" Joker repeated, eyes narrowing. Jonny was coming dangerously close to making him angry. First he'd crashed into him with no apology, then he'd kept on running even after the Joker caught up. That was not only rude, it was dangerous; Joker had to run to keep up, and in these shoes, that could easily cause a sprain. The Joker didn't care if Jonny was being pursued by the entire GPD or the Spanish Inquisition or what, that was no reason to let common courtesy fall by the wayside.

Besides, if the Joker kept running, he might start sweating and ruin his makeup. And he'd worked extra hard on it, for once. "_Make _time." He tightened his grip on Jonny's arm, making his friend yelp, and pulled him to a halt.

"Let _go_," Jonny protested, struggling. The Joker ground his teeth; Jonathan Crane was _not _supposed to talk back to him. Jonny was supposed to do what Joker wanted, whenever he wanted, without question, like a real friend should. Maybe it was that stupid mask of his. Maybe it gave him an illusion of power and control that he could never hope to achieve. Not while the Clown Prince of Crime was in the vicinity, anyway.

Besides, the damn thing looked like a potato sack. He refused to be associated with a man wearing grocery implements on his head.

He raised the hand not holding his silly little kitten secure, grabbed the mask, and ripped it off before Jonny could fight him. For a moment his friend stopped struggling, stunned, pale face exposed, brilliant blue eyes blinking. For some reason or other, Jonny's eyes always made Joker think of blindness. Whether this was because fictional blind people were often portrayed with pale blue or gray eyes, or because Joker would like to rip them out and keep them, he wasn't sure.

Then the moment was broken and the fighting began again. "Let go of me, you idiot, I have to get _out_ of here—"

The Joker took his mask-holding hand and slapped Jonny across the face with it. "Behave."

He smirked at the way his friend instantaneously went docile. Breaking Jonny's ribs may have ended the friendship for a bit, but it did wonders as a reminder to keep him in line. Jonny still looked white as a sheet, though, and he kept casting glances back toward the way he came. Joker took his free hand off the man's arm, turning his head to face him. "Are you going to be calm now?"

Inviting him to speak was like opening a floodgate. "Joker _please_ there's no time I can't stop now and we have to get out of here he could be here any minute—"

"Hush," he ordered, putting his hand over Jonny's mouth and ignoring the muffled protests vibrating against his palm. He had a good guess at what was going on now, but he wasn't about to hear it in the world's worst run-on sentence. Especially if that sentence had no commas. "Look, Jonny, I'm gonna take my hand off your mouth, and you're going to tell me what's scaring you so badly, but you're gonna do it _calmly, _got it?" He squeezed his hand against Jonny's face in emphasis, ignored the muffled moan.

Jonny nodded.

"Good." He lowered his hand.

"_Joker_—" He saw the clown's expression and caught himself. "The Batman's chasing me. I managed to lose him but I don't know for how much longer. Please, we need to leave."

_Perfect. _Screw getting to the Palisades, this was a far better idea to get Batsy's attention. He didn't mind abandoning the plan; really, if he was going to make plans at all, they should be easy to change. He giggled. "You've been out of Arkham for what, a week?"

"I didn't _plan _on getting caught," he protested, head still darting in every which way, eyes wide. The Joker would have given him a hug for comfort, but at this moment, it would probably give him a heart attack.

"Still. That's a new low for you, isn't it?"

"Look, we can mock my hiding skills _later._" God, he was whiny. The Joker had a hard time for a moment, trying to remember why he'd ever had a relationship with him. Then he remembered how flustered the narcissist got when the Joker had flirted, how pretty he was when he got all hot and bothered. "Right now we need to find a safe hiding place. Unless you _want _to get caught."

The grin on the Joker's face told Jonny all he needed to know, apparently.

"No," Jonny moaned, color draining from his face. "_No_." Wow, he sounded like a spoiled little kid. If it wasn't for the mentions of child abuse in his Arkham file, Joker would have expected him to have grown up rich and pampered. He supposed it was fear, but still. Men who dressed as scarecrows and called themselves masters of fear ought to grow a pair.

"Yes. _Yes_," he countered cheerfully, glancing around. No sign of the Bat yet—not that there would be, you could never tell he was coming until he made his Spectacular Entrance—but that didn't stop him from feeling butterflies of anticipation in his stomach.

"Joker, I don't want to go back to Arkham."

He laughed. "Who said anything about going back to Arkham?"

Jonny was too panicked to register that last sentence apparently, still looking around as he shook like Jell-O in a windstorm. Even for him, this was twitchy. "They alter your meds?" he asked, and recalled that, unlike himself, Jonny actually needed the drugs Arkham provided. Was dependent on them, in fact. He'd surely have taken some with him upon breaking out, but he had to run out at some point in the future.

Well, now scaredy cat definitely had to tag along. The whole eventually-running-out-of-pills-and-suffering-withdrawal thing could come in handy. Who knew?

"Yes," Jonny muttered, and the Joker had to think for a moment before he remembered the question he'd asked. "Joker, please, I don't want to get caught—"

He put his hand over his friend's mouth again, drawing him close. "You worry way too much, Jonny. Do ya think I'd let anything bad happen?"

All right, maybe that wasn't the best thing to comfort him with, given that he'd nearly killed him before, tried to kill him a second time, and left him to fight the Batman alone twice, but still. Joker was of the opinion that Jonny was _way_ too sensitive regarding those matters. It wasn't as if scarecrows could feel pain, after all. No nerve endings in straw and all that.

"Calm down," he whispered into Jonny's ear, stroking his shoulder. "It'll be fine. I promise." His friend stiffened a bit. Joker had forgotten that he didn't like to be touched. Not that he was about to stop upon remembering. Jonny needed to get over that. "Shh."

He took his eyes off Jonny, giving an expectant glance to the alley Scarecrow had come running through. When the Batman failed to materialize, he tapped a foot against the asphalt in impatience, taking a leaf from the Mad Hatter's book and muttering "Twinkle twinkle, little Bat, how I wonder where you're at."

"Joker."

The voice came from behind them, rasping and deep. Against him Jonny shuddered so badly Joker thought he might faint. He couldn't bring himself to care, though. A shiver ran through him as well, though this one was from pleasure. Smiling widely, he turned around, letting go of Jonathan—though he still held tightly to the other's wrist.

"Batman." Fighting back a giggle of delight, he stepped out from behind Jonny, spreading his arms out so that Bats could see his outfit in all its glory.

Even though the stretch of the street and a mask separated them, he could see the fury growing on the Batman's face. Jonny moaned under his breath, seeing only the rage but not the significance. Joker understood, and took it as a sign that Batsy appreciated his effort very much indeed.

He had better. It had taken the Joker a long time to hunt down, in his size, the dress Rachel Dawes had worn to Harvey Dent's fundraiser.

* * *

AN: The Joker's referring to _The Little Mermaid _when he talks about his childhood.

I don't think cats can actually digest asparagus, but the idea in that line was that asparagus makes urine smell worse.

"Twinkle twinkle, little Bat," comes from _Alice in Wonderland._

If you bothered to read all this, please review and let me know your thoughts!


	2. Hurts So Good

AN: Useless anecdote for the day: Someone stole the dry erase markers from my message board. It's so bizarre I'm not even sure I'm angry. Who steals markers?

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

"Like it?" the Joker asked, voice and expression the picture of innocence.

The Batman's expression, on the other hand, could easily have inspired tears in young children and heart failure in the elderly at this moment. The Joker was mildly surprised that Jonny hadn't fainted by now. He was usually able to hold his own far better than this; whatever alterations Arkham had made to his antipsychotics had clearly done him no favors.

Not that Joker was too bothered about it. His friends were much more interesting when the wires in their heads connected in the wrong spots. Otherwise, they were like everyone else, fading into the city background like living wallpaper. Honestly, he did Gotham a favor by killing people; at least the blood made them stand out again. Though no one else saw it that way, as the established order dictated that the pretty red stuff was supposed to stay inside, not out. Idiots.

"Ya know, it's impolite not to answer a question, Batsy."

He didn't expect an answer. The Batman was so good at silent treatment that Joker had come to accept the fact that ninety percent of their conversations consisted of himself asking and answering questions, while Bats just stood there, glowering. He didn't like it, but he'd learned to understand that they were polar opposites, so of course Batman would cancel out his own verbosity. Getting so much as a syllable from the man—unless he was being interrogated—was impossible to achieve without either loads of planning and effort, or shocking him into speech with brazen vulgarity.

The Joker tended to go for brazen vulgarity.

"You're _disgusting_."

Ooh, that he had _not _been anticipating. He'd have thought the dress would push Bats straight past the reasoning stage of the fight and into the beating. Not that he minded getting hit. Being beaten hurt—unless the aggressor was inexperienced, bad at his job, or stupid enough to start with the head—but it hurt so _good_. He didn't mean to be irreverent when he laughed while Batman tried beating him up, it was honestly funny to him. Batman just didn't understand.

Sometimes he wondered what the shrinks at Arkham would have to say about that, had he ever told them.

Well, he'd tried telling one once, but that was the same session where he'd decided to see how much he could disturb her by touching himself inappropriately while they spoke, so he didn't get too far into the explanation before she had him taken back to his cell. Coward. Really, shouldn't institution doctors be used to that sort of thing?

Enough reminiscing, though. The Batman's voice was so deep and angry and absolutely delightful. It made him shiver again. Jonny tried pulling himself out of the Joker grasp once more, but this time it felt almost half-hearted. Straw-for-Brains must have resigned himself to the fact that he wasn't about to go anywhere, then.

"That's friendly." He frowned, lips forming an even bigger pout than he'd painted with the lipstick. It occurred to him that Bats was going to focus entirely on the dress and miss all the gorgeous subtle details; the perm, the way the purse matched the dress, or how he'd modeled the face paint tonight after a geisha. Somewhat, anyway, the lipstick still had to extend to the scars and the black still went up to his eyebrows. Still, the shape of the eye black and the little line of skin showing between his hair line and the paint were straight out of Japan.

Oh well. The best effects were the ones so seamless no one ever realized they were there.

"You don't think it's pretty?" He ran his free hand down the front of the evening gown, halting his fingers at the top of the one alteration he'd made; the slit up the sides. Hey, it made kicking things easier. Besides, he had great legs. "Not my usual style, I'll admit, but I thought it brought up fond memories."

To his great displeasure, the Batman did not jump on top of him and start punching every part in reach. Perhaps that had something to do with Jonny's proximity. Batsy was definitely not as pissed at Scarecrow. Not at the moment. Whatever the reason, he remained in place, shaking ever so slightly with fury, and began to speak. Growl, really.

The Joker fought not to roll his eyes as he pretended to listen to the Batman's latest speech. Nothing he hadn't heard before, all crime and depravity and what's wrong with you and why couldn't you stay and Arkham, and I have standards and so on. So very boring. Why did he insist on talking like he was a cop? Why couldn't he pull his head out of the dirt and admit that they had a connection?

Bored, he drew Jonny closer to him. He didn't expect to make Batman jealous—not that he'd show it if he was—but he was hoping that the movement might jolt Batsy out of his latest lecture, remind him that he was dealing with two dangerous criminals. In theory, anyway, Jonny rather sucked at this villainy business. Joker wondered if he'd been better at it before the Clown Prince of Crime had made him his bitch. Probably. Hopefully. Wait, there was that whole 'taken down by the ADA because he was too high to know there was a taser pointed at him' fiasco. So, no, he'd always sucked.

The movement didn't shut Batsy up anyway. Joker held in a sigh and tried to listen. He could hardly complain about Batman's poor communication skills if he couldn't focus for more than five seconds. Oh, so the Caped Crusader was back to the 'you could have been sent to the electric chair but they gave you a second chance and now you're throwing it away' emotional blackmail. As if he really cared about the Joker's mental state. Bats was just pissed that Rachel Dawes couldn't pull of this dress half as well as he was doing now. _God. This is what happens when you give me the cold shoulder for months on end, Guano Man. It all comes out like Mentos in Coke and it's so very stupid._

Batman was starting to sound like Charlie Brown's teacher. Joker found it impossible to focus, try as he might. So with a sigh, he stopped trying, unzipped the purse.

Ironically, that was what finally got Batman's attention. He broke of mid-sentence, tensing. "What are you doing?"

"Re_lax_." His hand reemerged, purple evening gloves now sporting a few nick marks from the knives. In his fist he held a cell phone. "I don't suppose either of you, uh, fine gentleman have the time?" he asked, glancing from Batman, who still looked seconds away from tackling him, to Jonny. Jonny seemed to be panicking less, his fear fading into confusion. Good. If he'd freaked much more his heart could have given out, and Joker had found that his friends were decidedly less fun when deceased.

Unless he was in the mood to pull out tendons or something and watch the muscles twitch when he yanked. Then they could be quite fun.

"Joker." Ooh, and that was his warning tone, the one that meant 'Stop what you're doing and behave or I will start beating the life out of you and pretending it doesn't unnerve me when that turns you on.' Joker could read him like a book. A hard book, though, one that made him think. Something like _House of Leaves _when everyone else was _See Spot Run._

"Oh, there's a clock on the phone. Duh. Never mind." He flipped it open, noted the hour. "Cool."

The Batman was staring at him with what wasn't exactly confusion, but could be if he let himself slip.

"I thought it might be time for me to make a call," the Joker explained. "There's still about an hour, though."

Batsy didn't ask what kind of phone call he needed to make, only stepped forward. "You're going back to Arkham."

So they'd moved into the part of the encounter where Bats decided to skip the foreplay and get right into the beating. Too bad the whole dressing-as-Rachel rant had cut into their banter time. The Joker had the run of a typical fight almost down to a science now. Usually, only the length of time each stage lasted and the number of injuries varied. Which was good, because if Bats couldn't surprise him every now and then, he'd be just as useless as everybody else.

"Don't think so," he said, brightly, stepping behind Jonny. Not to protect himself; he could handle anything Batman could throw at him, and they all knew it. His phone, on the other hand, was decidedly less resilient.

He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw the Batman's eye twitch. "I'm not joking."

"Me neither." He used the back of his phone-holding hand to stroke Jonny's hair; his friend seemed to be panicking again. Probably remembering what had happened the last time Joker used him as a shield. "It's an important call, and they won't let me make it at Arkham."

He could practically hear the gears turning in Batsy's head as he processed this information. Should he play along and ask, or simply move in to take them down?

"Wanna know who I'm calling?" the Joker suggested helpfully.

Unfortunately, it seemed Batman was dead set on being contrary, despite his best efforts. "No. I'm going to give you one last chance to come quietly."

"No. And that goes for Jonny too." If the scaredy cat objected to this, he wisely chose not to do so aloud. "I refuse to go back to a place where a bunch of doctors pretend they care about me and then let the guards try and break my ribs every night. Besides, the food sucks." He didn't care about the guards, but really. The food was bad enough to kill a goat. One of these days he'd have to send a complaint letter to the administrator.

"If you won't go back on your own—"

"Yeah, yeah, you'll force me. Heard it before, Bats. I think I can do your speeches about as well as you can, by now. Ever consider getting some new material? Ya tend to lose the audience after about the hundredth repetition." He sensed that Batman's patience was wearing thin and cut to the chase. "And I wouldn't take me back, if I was you. Not unless you want the city in ruins."

This time he was sure the Bat's eyes widened, though his voice was even when he spoke. "What are you talking about?"

"See," he began, licking his lips. There was a fine line between a dramatic pause and drawing things out for too long, but he was fairly sure he'd mastered it. "I've got henchclowns. My henches? Have bombs. In the city."

"Where—"

"Ah ah ah, I'm getting to that. It's _rude _to interrupt, ya know. Back to my point, my boys also have orders. Orders meaning that if I don't contact 'em every twice a day or so, by phone call, they detonate the bombs. So you _can't _take me to Arkham or County, or, uh, MCU, because they'd take my cell phone And..." He trailed off, waving the phone hand to simulate an explosion. "Kaboom."

The Bat was doing that thing where he got so mad he started to shake again. He really ought to express himself more often. It would certainly be easier on his blood pressure. "Or I could make you to tell me the locations and take you back anyway."

"Assuming I _know _the locations. And ya know what they say about assuming, right?"

He could almost hear Batman's teeth grinding, across the space between them.

"I might have told 'em to, uh, surprise me. And while my men are usually about as useful as a hedgehog in a condom factory—" he paused, in case Batsy felt compelled to laugh. He didn't. "I've taught 'em what'll happen if those bombs aren't well concealed. And we're talking a hell of a big explosion here, Bats. Like, Gotham General levels."

It could not get any more apparent that Batman wanted nothing more than to hit him, very very badly. Shame that his self control was still holding up. "Why should I believe you?"

The Joker shrugged. "Fine. Don't. Haul my ass back to the cotton box and wait for the fireworks. Unless you can somehow check every building in the city in less than an hour."

Bats looked as though he was actually considering it, for a moment, and the Joker couldn't hold back a laugh at that. Then Batman was glaring at him and he felt the urge to reassure the man that he hadn't been making fun of him, to give him a hug and make him smile. Not that Batsy would ever let him get that close.

"What do you want, Joker?" he asked, finally, unable to keep a slight shake of anger from his voice.

"Thought you'd never ask." He sucked on his scars, considering. The Bat probably had his tank out here somewhere. Which had more than enough room.

"Well?"

"Impatient, much?" He frowned, then shrugged it off. "I want," he said, after a moment's pause to teach Batman a lesson, "you to take the two of us back to your little heroic lair." He ignored Jonny's gasp. "And if you don't, I'll tell them to detonate the bombs."

* * *

AN: "Charlie Brown's teacher" refers to the _Peanuts _cartoons where all adults' voices were made by a muted trombone droning. Interestingly, I've heard from non-English speakers that this is what all English sounds like to them.

_House of Leaves _is an absolutely brilliant book that I really can't begin to describe. If you're wondering what makes it hard to read, look it up on Wikipedia and check out the "Format" section. _See Spot Run _is an old book that taught children to read very simple words.


	3. Friends

AN: Sorry about the delay on this chapter; I had tests to study for and books to read for class. And also the whole not-being-able-to-log-in thing, which actually almost worked in my favor because no one could update, so I wasn't alone.

In other news, I'm so happy that Heath Ledger won the Oscar. I couldn't actually watch the ceremony until the next day online (not having a TV and the website for it failing) so my roommate and I had to rely on live blogs to give us the news. I may or may not have run around the room cheering and kissed my Joker poster. I may or may not have kissed it twice. This may or may not have not been the first time I've kissed it. I think I'd gone a bit mad, as I was that happy he was getting the recognition and honor he deserved.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

"No."

Batman's response was immediate; the Joker was shot down almost before he'd finished speaking. He'd expected that, and waited a moment, pushing on the inside of his scars with his tongue. Batsy was clearly pissed—ironic, for a guy who was supposed to be an unbiased, stoic crusader—and people often regretted things said in anger almost at once. Or so they said in group therapy, anyway. Personally, he never regretted things, and was of the opinion that the therapists only said that to try and avoid fights.

Still, he was willing to be patient for a second; give Bats a minute to consider his words and change his mind.

He didn't.

Well, the Joker hadn't expected that he would, really. Some people were just hopeless. "Fine. So I'll just tell 'em to blow part of your precious city to kingdom come, if that's the way ya want it." He flipped the phone open, moved to dial. He got the area code in before he heard the crunch of the Batman's boots against the grit of the sidewalk, realized his stubborn friend was about to try some misguided move to take his phone.

Faster than a speeding Batarang, the cell disappeared into his purse, a gun replacing in near instantaneously. "I wouldn't try it if I were you, Bats." He considered his words for a second, shrugged. "Actually, I, uh, kinda would. But then, I've got no sense of self-preservation."

They both knew the Kevlar of the armor would protect him from the bullet. Not that it wouldn't hurt; it would hurt like _hell_—the Joker's own nerves burned deliciously in sympathy pain from the mere thought. Unless the Joker got a headshot or hit between the armor plates—which would be harder, even at close range—he wouldn't be able to cause a fatal injury. Not at first, at least, though a shot could incapacitate him from pain. They both knew that as well, and that the Joker wouldn't want to kill his Batsy anyway.

Well, the Joker knew that bit. He wasn't so sure about Bats. The guy seemed to think that just because Joker slowly wanted to tear down his morals and rules and not so slowly destroy his precious city, just because he'd beaten him with a lead pipe and pinned him down on the balcony of a skyscraper, it meant he wanted to kill him. Ridiculous, the ideas people got.

Anyway, even if he and Batman were on the same page regarding killing flying Chiroptera mammals, there remained a Kevlar-less Jonny between them. And even if they were friends again, sometimes friends have to lay down their life for the greater good. It's not as if scarecrows had very exciting lives to begin with, and that's all Jonny was. The only difference being that blood would come out of him instead of straw, when shot.

Whatever. Bats stopped, either out of concern for his own safety, or Jonny's, or both. "Put the gun down."

"Take me where I wanna go, and I will."

"No."

Honestly. He was going to get a repeat of Gotham General and it would be entirely his fault. Silly immovable object and its way of letting things get worse by, well, not moving.

"What," Jonny began, and the Joker blinked. He'd sort of forgotten Jonny, despite holding onto the man and half-pointing a gun at him. He was overlookable that way. Probably why he'd resorted to wearing a potato sack on his head. That sort of thing just screamed 'look at me.' Joker was glad he'd taken the mask off, in retrospect. The last thing Jonny needed was outside support of his little narcissism problem. "What makes you think he has a lair to begin with?"

The Joker smirked, then realized Jonny was facing away from him. "I'm rolling my eyes, just so ya know."

"You didn't answer the question." Jonny's voice was firmer, and he wasn't shaking as much. Interesting, since he was almost surely more nervous than ever. Joker wondered if he'd become so terrified that the medication making him all twitchy couldn't handle it anymore.

"Look at it this way, scaredy cat; do ya think he parks the Batmobile in a garage?"

"Point."

The Batman's jaw clenched. Oh, right, he didn't like the term "Batmobile." Too bad. Whatever he called it, "Batmobile" was a hundred times better. "I'm not taking you anywhere, except—"

"Back to Arkham?" he supplied. Batsy's speeches could get depressingly repetitive. Joker was willing to overlook that, given their connection, but still. "Do you _want _the bombs to go off or what?"

"That's not going to happen." Ooh, he sounded so _sure_, standing there all stern and authoritative as though he had the slightest control over the situation. It was cute, really.

"If they take me back to Arkham, they take my phone. No phone call, bombs go off." It was like speaking to a toddler. Bats was about as stubborn as one, anyway. "Even if they let me keep the phone, I wouldn't call. I wanna hang out with _you_, and I tend to get, uh, disagreeable when I don't get my way."

"You twisted—"

"Every minute you waste yelling at me brings us a minute closer to the time I have to make the call, Bats. So, unless ya want part of Gotham to go bye-bye, I think we should start working out an agreement." Ooh, if looks could kill.

"Provoke him, why don't you?" Jonny muttered, almost to himself, and tapped on the side of the head with the gun barrel in response.

"Shush." This was getting boring. He didn't want to sit there arguing as the seconds ticked by. This was usually the point where he'd raise the stakes, but with bombs at the ready and a gun at Bats/Scarecrow's head, there wasn't a lot left to raise. "Think of it this way, Batsy—"

"No."

He was going to pretend he hadn't heard that. "Look, you're probably thinking there's some way you can get the gun away from me, and beat me into revealing the location. Assuming I know it." Batman didn't argue at this, so he continued. "Even if ya could—which ya can't—you certainly wouldn't be able to beat me badly enough to find out in an hour. So if you want your city to be safe, you should take me back. What's more important, your personal safety or Gotham?"

Batman opened his mouth to speak and was interrupted by Jonny. "Joker?"

The Joker was tempted to pistol-whip him again, harder this time, but recalled that every once in a millennium or so, Jonny had something worthwhile to say. "Yes, kitten?"

What he could see of Jonny's face went reddish. "Could I point something out and not get hit for it?"

Joker smirked. He hadn't asked if he could not get shot. Not that he would shoot him, at least not right now. It would lose him his hostage, currently the only thing between him and distracting if glorious Bat Wrath. "Go right ahead, kiddo."

"Even…" his voice shook slightly and he paused, started again. "Even if he takes us back, and you make the call, can't he just take the phone from you by force afterwards and use the extended time to track down the location you called?"

"Yes."

He scowled at Bats. Speaking in monosyllabics hardly counted on contributing to the discussion. Especially when they were rasped to the point of being almost unintelligible. When they did get to the man's Fortress of Light or whatever, they'd have to work on his communication skills. "Ya know what I think, Jonny?" he asked, leaning close enough that his breath made his friend's hair flutter slightly. "I think you don't want to go stay with Batman, and you're just making excuses."

"Of course I don't want to stay with him, he's—you—I—" he faltered, voice picking up speed. So now he was too nervous for the meds to handle, and too nervous to control himself. Good to know. "You have to be insane to _want _to—"

"Watch it, Jonny." He wasn't sure _why _being called crazy annoyed him, but it did, and in such a delicate situation as this, he wasn't about to put up with it. Even from his legitimately crazy friend. "Don't be scared, all right? He's not going to kill you, he doesn't do that. It's gonna be fun."

"It's not going to happen," Batman informed him, looking very much like he wanted to cross his arms in annoyance but couldn't do so because he had to remain in a defensive stance. So he'd begun speaking in full sentences. Good.

"Will so."

"Joker—"

"See Batsy, the thing is that even if you get your hands on my phone, it won't make a difference. Even if I've already made the call and bought ya another twelve hours or so. I'm not an idiot." And that was quite an understatement, if you asked him. He happened to be brilliant, just with a unique way of expressing it.

Batman's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

"I'm not dumb enough to call where my men are staying. I'm not dumb at all, but definitely not enough to do that. I'm calling somewhere else, and I'm not calling the same somewhere else every time. So even if you tracked down the location I last called before you got a hold of the phone, it wouldn't matter."

There was nothing in the world more entertaining than a man who'd run out of alternatives and knew it, but was desperately searching his mind for a third option. As was the Bat now.

"Tick tock tick tock tick to_ck_," he said helpfully. From the Batman's expression, he didn't appreciate it.

"Fine."

The Joker's eyes lit up to the brightness of an IMAX projector, by his estimate. "You mean—"

"You know what I mean."

Jonny gave a sigh that was almost a moan, as the Joker fought the urge to drop his weapon and do cartwheels down the sidewalk. He knew that the Batman was only agreeing to this in hopes of gaining information to track down the Joker's men, and to keep the villains contained while he did so, but that didn't matter. All that mattered was that he and the Bat were going to have loads of nice, uninterrupted time together. This was what heaven felt like, he was sure.

"Could I just go back to Arkham?" Jonny asked, speaking to Batman and not to him. The Joker was slightly annoyed; his friend should not be addressing his soul mate without permission, but he was willing to let it slide. Batman probably wouldn't appreciate it if he started beating his fellow hostage. "I don't know anything about his plans and—"

The Joker tightened his grip on Jonny's wrist and he fell silent. "Nope. Jonny comes or I'm not calling."

"But—"

He squeezed his wrist again. "You're the one who broke out of Arkham to begin with. You should be grateful that I'm keeping you from going back, Jonny. Aren'tcha grateful?"

"I—"

"Aren't we friends?" he went on, not in the mood for a rambling, panicked argument. "Friends spend time together. It hurts, kitten, that you're so, uh, dead set on avoiding me. I'll forgive you for it, because I'm nice like that, but it hurts."

Jonny took a deep breath, exhaled sharply. That was usually a sign that he was about to start whining and it would be a good time to zone him out.

The second he began to speak, the Joker's hypothesis was proven.

"Listen, you—you manipulative, vile—you cannot blackmail me into risking my safety like I'm Harley. I know better than that from experience, and if you think I'm going to let you guilt trip me into not attempting to get out of this situation, then you're in for a rude awakeni—"

The Joker couldn't recall where he'd learned that striking the carotid artery would lead to unconsciousness, but he remembered the mechanisms behind it. That artery was pressure sensitive, so applying force to it would send signals to the brain telling it the blood pressure had gone too high. The brain dropped the blood pressure to remedy the situation, and ta da_, _instant loss of consciousness.

It worked like a charm when he slammed his wrist against Jonny's neck, moving his hands to catch him as he slumped toward the sidewalk. "God, he's annoying when he's worked up."

Bats was glaring more than ever.

"What? You wanted to listen to him be all panicky the whole way back? I didya a favor. Him too," he added, kneeling down to lift Jonathan into his arms. He couldn't point the gun anymore, but he doubted Batman would attack someone carrying an unconscious person, even if that person was a criminal. "Now he's not worried anymore. See? Everyone's happy."

"You're disgusting."

"What? It didn't hurt him." Really, what was the use in getting upset over violence if it didn't cause damage? In fact, what was the use in getting upset over it at all?

Batman shook his head, jaw clenched tight as ever. "The second I find out where the bombs are, you're going back to Arkham."

"Good luck with that, Batsy." He smiled as wide as his mouth could possibly stretch, skin around the scars burning faintly in protest. "C'mon, let's get this show on the road."

* * *

AN: Chiroptera is the class of mammal bats fall under.

The glow from an IMAX projector on the moon would be visible on earth with the naked eye.


	4. Shoes

AN: Joker's experiences in high heels are based on my own. I can't walk in them. At all. I've tried and almost died in the process. I even wore flats to prom, which were much more comfortable.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

"You know," the Joker said, about a block and a half later, "if you wanted to be the gentleman here, you'd offer to carry Jonny." The Scarecrow wasn't heavy—he weighed about as much as his namesake might—but the Joker had severely underestimated the pain of walking in heels for an extended period. No wonder women seemed so bitchy all the time. Well, this and the PMS. He would have worn flats, but he was fairly sure Rachel Dawes had worn heels, and he couldn't ignore the source material for the sake of his own comfort. That would be silly.

Batman didn't answer. The Joker frowned, mouth turning down as much as it could before the scar tissue halted its progress. This relationship was not going to work without communication. Surely Bats knew that. Was he being belligerent, or just an idiot? Because Batman was not supposed to be an idiot. He was supposed to be the only one to rival Joker's brilliance. If the Bat turned out to be stupid, Joker had no idea how he'd cope.

Actually, he was sure it would involve killing a whole bunch of people. And blowing things up.

"Is this gonna be much longer?" He didn't mean to complain—though it was funny to watch Batsy try and contain his anger—but this was really painful. He was getting blisters for certain. "I mean, I could just wait here with the scaredy cat if ya wanna get your Batmobile on your own—"

"No."

He bit his lip; tasted the lipstick there. "Ya know, you can speak in full sentences if you want. Your voice might be all growly and weird, but it doesn't bother me." Getting no response, he continued, "That's not your natural voice, is it? 'Cause that's really unfortunate if it is. Does it hurt to talk that way? I imagine you must go through a crate of lozenges a week or so—"

"What do you want, Joker?" They were walking side by side, he assumed so Batman could attack him easily should he try anything. He was still staring straight ahead, pissed as ever, and didn't turn to acknowledge the clown as he spoke. But his shoulders tensed slightly, and that made Joker smirk.

"I just wanna spend time with you. You com_plete_ me, Bats, remember?" He looked so _angry_, quickening his speed slightly, which was just mean. The Joker didn't want to walk faster in these shoes. It would hurt even more, and he might fall. He wanted to reach over and pat the Bat's shoulder, assure him that he wasn't up to anything too evil. Batman would probably break his wrist if he tried, though. And while that would likely feel pretty wonderful, actually, he had his arms full of Scarecrow.

"You're willing to blow up a building to get my attention?"

He laughed. "Compared to some of the other things I've done to getcha to notice me? This is pretty minor." He licked his lips, waving his head slightly in the night breeze. He liked the feel of the wind through his hair; it was almost enough to distract him from the hell on Earth his feet had become. "'Sides, I'm not blowing up the building anymore, am I? So I don't see what you're so sore about."

Batsy looked as if he might respond, but didn't. Shame. Arguing with him was _so _much fun. That night in the interrogation room was probably the best time of his life. Still, it was almost as amusing to watch him cling so desperately to his self control. Joker knew why keeping himself in check meant so much to the Batman; losing control, with all his strength and repressed anger, could very well mean death for whoever was on the receiving end of that fury. Hell, slamming his head into the mirror the way Bats had done could have killed a lesser man. The fact that Joker had enjoyed it didn't make it any less brutal. Batman seemed to have realized that too, and was never quite as vicious after that, to the Joker's dismay.

_An unstoppable force and an immovable object_, he reflected, as he had so many times since he'd first said that line, dangling from the skyscraper. Even though that plan had failed, Batman had saved him and the sheer humor of that fact had exhilarated him, made him hardly care that those idiots on the ferries had ruined his scheme. Sometimes he felt as if he was only ever really living around Bats.

His therapists might have called that an obsession. He called it honesty. He and Batman were like fire and water. The oppositely charged ends of a magnet. Hot and cold. Water and oil. It was only natural that they'd be drawn together in a glorious, violent clash. The fact that Bats refused to see things for how they were didn't make it any less poignant.

They reached the Batmobile after one last agonizing block. The Joker made a note never to wear heels again. Or at least to hack the heel part off of the shoe before putting it on. Not that it would help, actually, the toes and the back of the shoe were tight and every bit as miserable. What was wrong with women? Did the blood just not flow to their brains or something? Usually he was a fan of women's clothing, but usually he wore his own shoes underneath.

He noted that the spray paint had come off of the hood, from the time those kids had tagged it outside Jonny's apartment. He couldn't remember if it had still been there when Batman last arrested him, but he doubted it. For someone who dressed as a bat, he took himself awfully seriously. Riding around in a marked up vehicle, even if no one knew who he was, would be too shameful to bear.

"Shotgun!" Joker said cheerfully, trying to ignore the ache below his ankles. It didn't take.

"Absolutely not."

"Aw." He had half a mind to throw Jonny at him for that. He decided against it at the last moment; Kitten was going to be whiny enough when he woke up anyway. Assuming that Scarecrow wasn't the one to come out. Then he'd just be a shrill, angry harpy. Joker wasn't sure which would be more annoying. "Why not?"

"Same reason as last time." Batman unhooked something from his utility belt. He'd turned his body away from the Joker, so the cape concealed precisely what that something was, but the Joker could hear a quiet, metallic clang. "I don't trust you not to make us crash. Put Crane down."

He did so, taking care not to let him fall roughly to the ground. He wasn't particularly concerned for Jonny's safety—he'd hurt him far, far worse before than dropping him could—but he wanted to keep on Batman's good side for the moment. Not that he was on Batman's good side. He doubted the Caped Crusader _had _a good side, at least as far as the Joker was concerned and things that did not concern the Joker didn't matter. But there was no harm in making the effort.

"And the purse."

He frowned again. "It's just rude to ask a lady to give up her handbag, Batsy."

"You're not a lady. Put it down."

"_Fine._" With a heavy sigh, he began to slide the strap down from his shoulder. "I'm getting my phone out first."

When Batman didn't argue, he unzipped the bag and rummaged for his cell. The satin of his evening glove was pierced a few more times by the stray blades before he recovered it. He closed the purse, lowered it to the sidewalk beside Jonny. "Happy now?"

"Call them."

"Boss me around, why don'tcha?" Joker scowled, flipped the phone open and glanced at the time display. "I can't. There's still forty-five minutes." _Really?_ he thought, almost perplexed. It had seemed as if they'd been walking around for far, far longer than fifteen minutes. Then again, that could be due to the absolute torture that was high-heeled shoes. Invented by Satan himself, if the man existed. The Joker sometimes hoped he did. He thought they'd make good friends. Though he might have to punch the devil first; for making such sucky footwear. Even if it was genius.

"You can't call them earlier?"

Joker held in giggles as he watched the man's mouth working. He let himself get so worked up over such _little _things. Was it any wonder when the Bat lost control he had all the force of an angry rhino? "I can't guarantee that they'll be there to answer early. Be_sides_, my men have their orders, and their orders are to answer the phone at the appointed time. Not whenever it rings around them, that exact time."

"Fine." He sounded exasperated, as if he wanted to sigh. He really should; his blood pressure must be through the roof by now. The Joker was struck with the urge to hug him again, though he knew it could only end badly. Maybe that was why he was so tempted to do that. He didn't remember too terribly much of his life, but he was fairly sure he'd always been the type of person to put his hand on the burner when told "Don't touch that, it's hot." Life was more exciting that way. The Batman turned, revealing, to the Joker's delight, that he was holding a pair of hand cuffs. They reflected off the streetlight like aluminum foil, one of mankind's greatest inventions, in the Joker's mind. He could have melted then and there. "Give me your wrists."

"Why, certainly, Bats." He was unable to stop the giggles as he extended his arms, only to have them shoved behind his back and cuffed from there. Batman cuffed him each time he brought him in—except for the times that left him unconscious, and maybe even then, he had no way of knowing—but it never failed to amuse him. "_Al_ways thought you were a D."

Batman, in spite of himself, faltered for a moment, clicking the cuffs against his wrists, tight enough to oh-so-wonderfully grate against his skin. "What?"

"D," the Joker repeated, running a tongue slowly across his lips. "As in BDSM. Bondage and discipline, dominance and submission, sadism and masochism? You, my friend, are most cer_tain_ly a D."

The Batman finished securing the cuffs, tugging on the chain with what was definitely unnecessary force. Not that he minded. The Joker laughed harder than ever, with such force that he nearly fell over, and the Bat had to put a hand on him to straighten him. Which, of course, only made him laugh more. Every time, _every _time Batsy restrained him, he'd make some sort of sexual remark, but Bats never seemed to learn from experience to avoid conversation, and that was the most entertaining thing in the world.

He stopped laughing when he felt the Batman's hand move, a second before a thick, heavy fabric was draped over his face. He felt a moment of what was almost panic, before he realized that, whatever it was, he could breathe through it. He couldn't see; though, and that made his stomach twist in a rather unpleasant manner. "You're blindfolding me? I gotta say, Bats, I knew you're pretty kin_ky_, but on a street, in front of an unconscious tattie bogle and God knows who else watching from their windows? Even for you, that's a bit—"

"Quiet." He felt himself shoved forward, body hitting against something relatively soft and yielding before he was pushed into a sitting position, and realized he'd been placed in the back seat of the Batmobile. "It's not a blindfold, anyway."

That was true; from what he could feel, it was more of a mask with no mouth or eye holes. Bats was trying to keep him from discovering the location of the secret lair, obviously. As if Joker couldn't count the number of turns from their current spot and note the direction of the turns and the time between each? Though knowing Batsy, he'd drive in circles for a bit to avoid that sort of thing happening.

The Batman strapped him down to the seat, from his neck to his ankles, and did a reasonable job of ignoring the way the Joker moaned at each touch. It was a shame he couldn't force his body to respond the way his voice did; it seemed he was too tired and pained from the shoes to be in much of a mood, no matter how much it would aggravate the Bat. Besides, he was not a fan of this mask. It canceled out all light, despite being breathable. Probably some sort of weird NASA fabric. Whatever the deal was, he didn't like it.

He kept his complaints to himself. Not to foster a sense of good will between them, but because Batman was sadly only human, and he may well keep the mask on longer just to be a dick. People could be so cruel. You impersonate their dead girlfriends and they get all torn up over it. Ridiculous.

Then the Batman's hands weren't on him anymore, and he moaned a final time, now out of dismay. There was sound in front of him, another click of handcuffs, and he knew Jonny was being secured as well. He imagined the scaredy cat's reaction to waking tied up and giggled. Ooh, he was going to _scream._ Still, he began to feel annoyance along with discomfort. Batman was supposed to be paying attention to him. Jonny wouldn't even be there if the Joker hadn't decided a third wheel might come in handy.

"Hey, Bats?"

A pause, and for a moment he thought he'd be ignored. "What?"

"This is gonna take less than forty minutes, right? 'Cause otherwise, I won't be able to make the call," he tugged his bound arms fruitlessly to prove his point, "and the place is gonna go kaboom anyway. It won't be my fault."

"You'll be able to make the call."

"'Kay." Underneath the mask, he licked his lips, briefly brushing his tongue against the fabric by accident. Ugh. "Batsy?"

He heard a door close, the engine roar to life. "What?"

For a moment he made him wait, sat back and enjoyed the vibrations of the engine through his seat. Just when he could tell, without needing to see him, that the Batman's saint like patience was about to snap, he spoke up again. "What's this thing called, if it's not the Batmobile?"

The car took off with such speed that he was thrown back into the seat, something he wouldn't have thought possible, considering how tightly he was strapped down. There was no reply from the front.

"Fine, ignore me."

No response.

"Communication is vital to a relationship, Batsy. You know that, right?"

"Enough."

Well, it was a start. "See that? That's communicating. You need to keep that up if you—"

"Joker."

"Spoilsport." With a sigh he tried to make himself comfortable under all the straps holding him down—enough leather to make a whole cow, it seemed—and began to hum. When that got no response, he began to sing.

He could have sworn he could hear Batman's teeth grinding, even over the engine and his own voice.

* * *

AN: Tattie bogle is alternative name for a scarecrow. It's Scottish.

I imagine it must really hurt Christian Bale to do the Batman voice for extended periods. I read once that he lost his voice several times during the filming of _Batman Begins _and I absolutely believe it.


	5. Bad Idea

AN: So fantastic fellow author GreyLiliy (check her out, she's good) made a fanart of the Joker dressed up as Rachel. You can see it here: http :// liliy. deviantart. com/ art/ Joker-is-Pretty-114149130 (remove the spaces). I love his hair and its curliness.

Speaking of authors, I'd also like to recommend Elizabeth Tudor. She is awesome.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

He wasn't sure how long they'd been driving before Jonny woke up.

His best estimate was about twenty-five minutes or so, but he couldn't be sure. He'd been adding up the length of each song he sang in his head for a rough estimate, but then Bats had told him to shut up. Usually he wouldn't have obeyed such a command, but for some reason it got him started thinking about how his conversations with Batman always seemed to go. Not that they really counted as conversations, given that Joker did about ninety-eight percent of the talking. Whenever Batsy did speak, it was always in short, terse sentences, full of 'no,' or some variant thereof.

"Be quiet." "Don't touch that." "No." "Stop." "Put that down." "Let her go." On and on and on. For his other half in life, Batman sure got monotonous. It would have been depressing, had the Joker not had his good sense of humor. Bats reminded him of a two year old, someone who'd never grown out of the 'no' stage. It wouldn't have been so amusing if he didn't act as if he was being so mature about everything. That fact pushed things from mildly funny to outright hilarious.

He was trying to hold back his giggles, figuring he should make _some _effort, no matter how small, to appeal the Batman's better nature, when Jonny woke up.

Not that he saw him wake up, of course, he still had that stupid, uncomfortable mask over his head. But the sudden rustling noise and the short, panicked sound he heard before the doctor could shut himself up were a dead giveaway.

"Morning!" he said brightly, even though it wasn't. Batman's conversational skills were _severely _lacking, and he wanted to get some talk in before the Caped Crusader could make his presence known and scare Jonny into silence. He admired that trait of the Bat's; he could almost never make Jonny shut up, even when the man was madly in love with him. It was his little being quiet problem that had ended their relationship in the first place. That, and the whole 'unable to accept that the Joker would use him as a Bat-distraction when necessary' thing. Some people got so worked up over such minor issues.

Another sound of movement and a barely audible whimper of fear that was over so quickly it was hard to believe it had been there at all. Under the mask, the Joker smirked. It used to be that Jonny would rather die than let other people know he was afraid; it used to be that the Joker had to have physical contact and be making threats before the scaredy cat would show any outward sign of fear. Well, beyond what showed in his eyes, but he could hardly help that. Now Joker's voice alone could cause panic.

Maybe the mask and the restraints helped, but mostly his voice. He fought back the laughter again; hearing him cackle for seemingly no reason would probably give the poor boy a heart attack. Jonny had become little more than a walking, talking reminder of the Joker's influence, his ability to twist people into the shapes he wanted. It was too bad, in retrospect, that twisting Jonny had made him predictable. But then, most people were easy to figure out anyway, and the ones made of straw had no real reason to be different.

It was why he loved Batman so much. The man managed to follow the same narrow rules day after day, yet still surprise him.

"Joker?" His voice sounded muffled. He imagined his own must have as well. "What's—why—I c-can't see."

He sounded as if he was shaking. The Joker supposed that being unable to see would be scary, to a normal person, but Jonny would usually rather die than display weakness. It was going to be so much fun when they got to the Bat Lair, exploring just how vulnerable the alterations in the medications made his friend. Bats would probably separate them, though.

Not that that would stop him.

"I know," he said, before the Batman could answer. "Don't worry about it, neither can I."

"W-why can't I see?"

"You're blindfolded," Batman told him, before Joker could speak.

Judging from the sharp intake of breath and increased sounds of movement, the Joker had been right on the mark when he'd guessed that Batman should have left the talking up to him. Or at least toned down the Bat voice. He was lucky he hadn't made Jonathan faint again.

"Where—"

"Batmobile," the Joker supplied, before Batsy could shock his friend catatonic. He was the only one allowed to break Jonny. Anyway, Batman had already done it once, with the fear toxin.

"It's not calle—"

"Give me its proper name and I might use it."

Silence.

_He probably calls it a Batmobile in his head._ Why else would he be so defensive? If he stopped making such a big deal over it, the Joker might let it die. Okay, he wouldn't, but there was always a chance.

"What h-happened?"

"You were being chased by Bats, you ran into me, we had one of those, uh, hero-villain standoffs, and I intimidated him into bringing us back to his place instead of Arkham." He stopped, considered. No, that was about everything. "You were right there, kitten. What kinda pills have they got you on, that you can't remember that?"

"I meant _after_ that." Ooh, and there was a flash of the old Jonny, the one that wasn't shattered completely. Lucifer before the fall, proud as ever but not yet disillusioned. Not_ more_ fun than Broken Jonny, per se, but just as entertaining in a different way. "The bit where I somehow lost consciousness."

"Oh, that. You, uh, fainted."

"I did not!"

He had to bite the inside of his mouth for a moment to keep from giggling. "I thought ya didn't remember what happened?"

"I'd remember _that_, I—wait a second, that…you…you knocked me out!"

His expression was of perfect innocence. Too bad nobody could see it. "Why would I do a thing like that?"

"You promised you wouldn't hurt me, you bastard!"

Actually, he'd promised he wouldn't sneak into his cell at Arkham and hurt him. The only promise he'd made regarding the world in general was that he wouldn't kill him. People were always so quick to assume that he didn't keep his word, but the real problem was that they didn't think these agreements through. Besides, it hadn't hurt. He'd been knocked out that way before—at least, he thought he remembered that he had—and it hadn't hurt too horribly. Jonny needed to lighten up. "I didya a favor."

He heard a noise from Batsy's direction that could have been either a scoff or a cough. He assumed the former.

"And just _how_," Jonathan demanded, in that voice he used when he was really angry that was supposed to be intimidating but actually sounded more like a nagging housewife, "do you figure that?"

"You were freaking out in that alley, that's how. About five seconds from a heart attack. What I did lowered your blood pressure. I may have saved your life. You're welcome."

The Batman made that noise again, and this time it was most assuredly a scoff.

"I hate you."

"You can't hate me. I gave you a pony."

"Your logic makes no sense whatsoe—"

The Batmobile lurched forward, as if it were jumping. Knowing the advanced abilities of this tank, it probably was. There was a strange, momentary feeling of weightlessness, like one got when plummeting down a roller coaster, and a spattering sound against the exterior like very heavy rain. And then there was impact, loud and hard and jarring.

"We're here," Bats announced flatly.

"Don't sound so overjoyed," the Joker said after a moment, when his organs had settled back into their proper places. Much as he expected, he got no response.

* * *

This was a bad idea.

That was obvious, beyond saying at this point, honestly, but it was the one thing his mind kept returning to; the one stable point in the middle of this chaos. A very bad idea. It was like something he'd watched in cartoons as a kid, on _The Gray Ghost _or something similar; the hero taking the villains back into his home. And the Batcave was his home every bit as much as the newly reconstructed Wayne Manor above it.

Even as a child, he'd known how those episodes would turn out; the villains would always escape, no matter how tightly watched or carefully imprisoned they were. And the hero would always be threatened, usually severely, only to win the fight or be saved by friends in the nick of time. Only this wasn't a children's television show. There was no status quo keeping Bruce alive. Just luck, and he had that too rarely to depend on it for anything.

He wanted to slap himself for agreeing to this in the first place. The Joker and the Scarecrow were in the foundations beneath his house, for the love of God. If Arkham couldn't hold them, and he poured hundreds of thousands of dollars into improving the aylum's security, what on Earth made keeping them here any safer?

A horrible idea.

But what choice did he have? If the Joker was telling the truth about explosives—and he had no reason to believe he wasn't; even if he did claim to never do the same thing twice, Bruce didn't trust that for a moment—it wasn't as if he'd pick an empty building. Whatever he'd wired to blow, it would be full of scores if not hundreds of innocent people, and he wasn't willing to let the Joker cause anymore mass deaths. It had been a miracle that the ferries hadn't blow each other to pieces, but even that wasn't enough to make up for the lives lost in the Joker's attack on Gotham General or Arkham Asylum. He was not going to let people die again because he failed to put an end to it.

_The will to act is everything._

Henri Ducard—no, Ra's Al Ghul's words echoed, unbidden, in his mind. Logically, he knew that the last person he should be taking advice from was his murderous former mentor, but it was hard to separate his emotions from his reasoning at this point. The fact remained that while Ra's had been a twisted, vengeful killer, he'd taught Bruce valuable things. And the will to act was important. The Joker wouldn't have stopped the killings had he really turned himself in—the attack on Harvey Dent was proof of that—but knowing that didn't bring the five who had been killed up to that point back to life.

It didn't bring those killed after back to life either, or heal Dent in body or mind. It didn't bring back Rachel.

_Rachel_…just the sight of that monster dressed the way the only woman he'd ever loved had the night she stood up to the Joker, the night he threw her out the window and Bruce's saving her marked her as a target, made him use everything he had not to wrap his hands around the clown's throat and keep squeezing until the body beneath his grasp began to rot. But he couldn't do that. Not killing the Joker had cost lives, there was no denying that, but this was the one area where he had to have the will to act. He had to be able to hold back, even if it meant letting this abomination, this creature that could barely be considered human, live.

Because if he didn't, he'd be starting down the same path as Ra's, the one he'd narrowly avoided so many times in the past. The same path as the Joker, and all the other scum that fought him for Gotham's soul. And that was why he had to let the Joker live, had to bring them back here. He could no more put a monster's blood on his hands than the lives of the innocents he was theoretically saving now. To do so would be staring into the abyss, and when one did that, the abyss stared back.

Still, nothing good could come of this situation. It put not only his life at risk, but also Alfred's, and his identity. Jonathan Crane wasn't stupid, and neither was the Joker, much as he acted to the contrary. Even the rush of water from the caves could be a hint to their location, blindfolds or not. Thank God for the cells.

They had been Alfred's idea, suggested a bit after he gave Bruce the idea of improving the foundations. In retrospect, Bruce wondered if Alfred hadn't realized a situation like this could spring up long before he had himself. It wouldn't surprise him; Alfred knew what battle was like, be it a war against crime or tracking down bandits in a forest. Whatever the reason, the cells had been built, with secured doors and surveillance equipment he'd never been so grateful for.

He'd made the Joker make the phone call before he took either of them out of the Tumbler, un-strapping him enough to allow the use of his hands and practically sitting on top of him to ensure that he didn't try anything while partially unrestrained. To his surprise—and relief—the Joker hadn't argued. Maybe he'd realized that if the bombs were detonated because he took too long complaining, Batman would have no incentive to keep him here. Or maybe he was just insane.

He took Crane first, un-strapping him as quickly as possible and running him into the cell, trying to keep his exposure to the sounds of the water and the bats as short as possible. Crane didn't struggle, only let himself be carried, shaking, and flinched when the door of the cell slammed. He was searched for weapons and chained, with enough slack to let him move from the mattress he was sitting on to the toilet in the corner, but not enough to allow him access to the door. Batman chained him as securely as he could, and when he was finally satisfied, he added a few more.

He moved the mask and made his way back out without comment, closing the door behind him as quickly as he could.

He'd restrained the Joker once more before leaving the Tumbler, of course, and found him still in place. Like Crane, the Joker didn't resist being transported; in fact, to Bruce's disgust, he tried to burrow his body closer to Batman's while he was being carried, and once again it took everything he had not to beat his body into tiny, bloody bits. He chained the Joker in the same manner that he'd chained Crane and then some, and then some more on top of that. He had enough blades strapped to the insides of his thighs and under the dress's bodice alone to fill a store aisle, and Batman simply removed the coat altogether, knowing it would take too long to search. He took the cell phone, knowing he had a little less than twelve hours before the Joker would need it again.

The Joker sat without comment, until the mask was pulled from his face and Batman stood, coat, weapons, and cell phone in hand. Then he smirked, makeup smudged and curly hair tangled in his face, watching Batman's progress to the door. "I don't even get a goodnight kiss?"

He slammed the door so hard he was surprised it didn't break, never mind that it was made of solid steel.

He had the phone, and hopefully the number last dialed—as well as the others—would be of help in tracking the explosives down so he could get rid of them. He had over eleven hours, still. It wouldn't take nearly that long to track down a number.

Now if only he knew how he was going to explain this to Alfred.

* * *

AN: _The Gray Ghost _comes from _Batman: The Animated Series_, and was one of Bruce Wayne's favorite shows as a child. The Gray Ghost was voiced by Adam West.


	6. Frustration and Conversation

AN: So I just discovered the short film _At Death's Door_ online today, starring Cillian Murphy as a young Grim Reaper, and I love it for giving Mr. Murphy a scythe. Seriously, that just made all my fangirl dreams come true.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

The number the Joker had dialed belonged to a payphone.

The payphone was not, as he would have expected, in the Narrows, where the Joker tended to stay after breakouts, but located in Midtown, albeit it close to one of the bridges leading into Narrows Island. It wasn't too surprising, upon reflection, given that the odds of finding a working payphone in the Narrows were about as likely as Arkham holding an inmate for more than a week. The phone, he found, was around halfway between the botanical gardens in Midtown and the river, and was, of course, nowhere near any sort of security camera or other device that could have recorded who was using it.

Well, he hadn't expected the Joker to make anything easy.

There was one other recorded call on the phone, from exactly twelve hours prior to the one he'd traced. That number led back to another payphone, this one on completely the other side of the city, in Downtown by the Rogers Yacht Basin. This phone was actually within sight of a security camera, though like so many others in Gotham, it wasn't functioning. That didn't surprise him either; the Joker was too intelligent to be caught on camera—or have his men caught—unless he wanted to be, as he had back in the days when he'd been robbing mob banks.

Bruce found himself wishing the clown had wanted to flaunt his superiority, or however he thought of it, for once.

If only for the fact that it would get these psychopaths out of his cave sooner. Every second that they remained in the cells, the risk of one of them slipping out or figuring out the location grew. Aside from the period of time it took Bruce to leave the cave and head into the house, he hadn't left the surveillance room, researching the phones' locations from there. So far, both of the villains were asleep—or doing a good imitation thereof. It was a shame the cells were only equipped with cameras, not microphones. Then again, that might be for the best; before the Joker had apparently tired himself out, or simply gotten bored, he'd done a lot of what looked like shouting. Or possibly singing. Whatever it was, Bruce was sure it would have worn straight through what little patience he had left.

His anxiety had over the situation had worsened when he'd run out of things to investigate. There were no prior calls made on the Joker's cell phone, which either meant it was stolen and had a new memory card, or it was brand new. The second was the more likely option, judging from the lack of wear and tear visible on the phone. With that in mind, he decided to hold off on checking it for prints at the moment, instead deciding to use the phone company the cell connected to in hopes of tracking down the account providing it. That should give him a location. Maybe not the one the Joker's men were using at present, but a starting place to look for clues.

In the process of searching, he realized the Joker was far cleverer than he'd given him credit for.

Or perhaps one of his men was. The Joker didn't seem adept with technology—aside from weaponry and recording equipment—but on the other hand, Bruce couldn't see one of the Joker's men coming up with this. The clown tended to employ idiots or psychotics. It was more likely that he'd come up with the idea and had one of his henchmen implement it for him.

The Joker's cell phone didn't connect with a phone company. Upon examination, it had two types of memory; the first being the one the cell came with—which he found to be not functioning—and the second being an addition, either placed by the clown or one of his men. The Joker had managed to use his phone as a modem without a service provider, somehow, and had used this modem to tap his phone into a phone line. A phone line, as Bruce found after a bit of tracking, used by phone technicians to test the lines. Giving the cell constant, uninterrupted service—provided, he assumed, it was in a place where the connection to the modem would work—that couldn't be traced back to a service provider.

_God damn that clown._

Completely out of ideas on the phone, he resorted to searching the Joker's ridiculous purple coat for any hints as to what he might be up to.

Doing so made him start to develop a migraine.

Whoever had designed the thing was a genius. Insane, and likely evil, but a genius. He highly doubted it was the Joker; he couldn't picture the clown sitting still long enough to do this. But whoever his tailor was, he'd made a wise decision in picking that person. The coat had more concealed pockets and hiding places than he could count, and every last one was filled with something, be it knives, brass knuckles, lint, lipstick, lock picks, or mints. Why the Joker carried around peppermints, Bruce had no idea. He certainly didn't use them, judging by his breath.

Even the lining of the coat could be removed, Bruce found, and the Joker had used the space between the lining and the coat proper to hide garrotes and piano wire. He winced, thinking of what it must feel like to fall back on the stuff during a fight. The Joker was lucky, really, not to get himself killed this way. Of course, everything the Joker did seemed guaranteed to end in his death, and that never deterred or hurt him in the slightest. It was insane.

Admist the weapons, makeup, and out of place hard candy, there was a battery-powered cell phone charger. He supposed he'd have to return that to the clown, along with the phone. Knowing the Joker, he'd probably dissemble it and use it to escape or kill himself, but what choice did he have? Letting the phone die wasn't an option. It would be safest, he supposed, to keep the phone in his possession and only allow the Joker access to it once every twelve hours.

Having exhausted all the possibilities he could think of around three in the morning, and not wanting to wake Alfred to tell him the news—not wanting to tell him at all, though he knew he had to—he sat back, resolved to watch the Joker and the Scarecrow without falter, to keep his home, identity, and Alfred safe.

About fifteen minutes later, from what he could estimate the next morning, he was out like a light.

He awoke around nine to find Alfred gone, causing him a brief moment of panic before he remembered that the man always went for groceries on Saturday mornings, and the villains were still locked and chained, as the surveillance screens showed.

He rewound the footage, watched to see what he had missed. Crane appeared to have slept through the night, and it would also seem that he was a heavy sleeper, given that tossing and turning on his restraints hadn't woken him. He was awake now, sitting on the mattress, unmoving, aside from his head, tilting one way and another as he glanced around the room.

The Joker also appeared to have slept, albeit sitting up, and more peacefully, and was now observing the room as well. Even on the grainy, black and white footage, Bruce could see his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheeks, moving feverishly inside his mouth. He had no idea what made the clown do that, but he knew that it made him feel disgusted to watch.

No one knew where the scars had come from. Not that he hadn't told people; every psychiatrist the Joker had encountered had heard an origin story—except maybe for Harleen Quinzel, her notes for the Joker's sessions had been rather sparse or off topic—as had many of his victims and Batman himself, on occasion. No one knew the true story, however. Bruce had no interest in guessing at the man's past, or any belief that the Joker was fueled by something besides insanity, but if he had to guess at the scars' origins, he would say that the Joker put them there himself for attention. Certainly he liked drawing focus to them enough. Marks like that were massive, disfiguring, disabling, but the Joker wore them like a badge of pride, constantly touching them, almost as if to assure himself that they were still there.

It was unnerving to see such attachment to an injury, to say the least.

He watched the footage for a few more minutes, amazed that neither of them had tried anything yet. He supposed they were biding their time, or perhaps had already planned something, long before being caught. If there was a plan, though, he didn't think Crane was in on it; his look of shock at the Joker's words had not seemed feigned. No, it was more likely that the Joker was keeping plans to himself and had just dragged Crane along for his own sick amusement, and that Crane was observing his conditions and waiting for an opportunity to present itself.

His thoughts were cut short by a pain in his abdomen that he realized, after a moment's thought, was not caused by injury, but by hunger. At which point he made his way to the kitchen, and halfway through the journey, realized that he'd have to feed his captives as well.

_Damn it._

The act of painting around his eyes and getting into the Batsuit so he could deliver breakfast to two madmen in his basement was almost bizarre enough to be amusing, if not for the danger of the situation. It was a shame food was necessary for survival. He'd have liked nothing more than to have left them to rot in the cells. It would keep Gotham safer than Arkham would, provided he could actually keep them contained.

He went to Crane's cell first, because it was far too early in the morning to deal with the Joker.

He opened and closed the door as quickly as possible, trying to block as much of the outside noise as he could. Crane didn't seem to react to the brief sound of dripping water from elsewhere in the caves, only jumped at the sight of the Batman. He began to shake, but only slightly. It couldn't be plainer that he was afraid, but it was also clear that he was giving his all not to show it. It was admirable, he supposed, even if nothing else about the man was.

"I-I haven't tried to break out," he said, flinching slightly at the Batman's presence. "I didn't want to be here to begin with, and if you're going to blame someone for this, I'd prefer that you take it out on the one who's actually responsible, as opposed to beating me into—"

"I'm not going to hurt you." He knelt down, placed the tray in front of Crane. "It's not poisoned," he added, upon noting the doctor's suspicious look. As that didn't appear to reassure him in the slightest, he continued, "If I was going to torture you, why bother poisoning the food? I could just not feed you."

"Call it poetic justice," Crane muttered, leaning back against the wall. "Look, if you want information, I have no idea where the Joker was headed, or what he thinks he'll gain by coming here, besides a concussion and a bruised spinal cord. I'd barely gotten my things back together when you caught up with me—didn't even have the toxin, as I'm sure you'd noticed—and he didn't tell me about this prior, so please don't start slamming my head into things trying to figure out his plan, because I know about as much as you do regarding this, and probably less, so—"

"I didn't come here to interrogate you." He cut him off, mildly stunned. That was probably the most Crane had ever spoken to him in a single breath, aside from the one horrific time he'd seen him un-medicated. He still had his prescriptions this time; Batman had found them on his person while searching him for a weapon, and let him keep them, not knowing when he'd need them and doubting Crane would try to overdose. Of course, just because he had the pills, it didn't mean he was taking them. He certainly wasn't acting like himself.

Whatever the reason for Crane's odd behavior, he decided to take advantage of the man's sudden talkativeness. "Has the Joker tried to speak to you?"

He shook his head, still eyeing the toast as if he expected it to leap at him. "I can hear him through the wall," he said, with a tilt of the head back to the wall he was leaning against. That was the wall separating the cells, not as well soundproofed as the other three, and for some reason with a door built between the cells, though luckily far enough down that neither of them could reach it in the chains. He cursed himself for not questioning the use of such a door during construction. It was an unnecessary risk.

"But he hasn't spoken to _me_," Crane continued, his look of fear slipping into exasperation for a moment. "He's just been…singing. And reciting love poetry, and all sorts of nonsense. I thought he might be addressing _you _for a while, as if he'd gotten you over there and you'd finally snapped and were about to have sex with him or something—" He stopped mid-sentence, looking surprised and horrified at his own words. Probably thinking he was going to be hit.

Bruce might have reassured him, had he not been so floored by that statement himself. He took a moment to collect the shattered bits of his sanity from the floor, cleared his throat. "Did you stop taking your medication?"

"No." Crane lowered his head, looking miserable. "They altered it, though."

"Why?" Was there _any _area of psychiatry in which Arkham was competent?

"I don't know. They do it every time they change my diagnosis, and that changes almost every time I'm sent back. Narcissistic personality disorder's the only consistent one; I've also been called bipolar, had a conduct disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, dissociative identity disorder—though I was lying to the psychiatrist that time—and…oh, what's the latest one?" He paused to breathe, bit his lip, eyes wandering in thought. "Ah. Manic. I'm manic. Do you think I'm manic?" Crane asked, glancing to Batman for the first time since he'd started the tirade.

"You're acting manic."

"Maybe it's a self-fulfilling prophecy." He shrugged, went back to glancing around the room. In a disturbing way, his seeming inability to stop talking was almost fascinating. "The point is, they changed it, and now I'm hyper aware and generally miserable, and cannot shut up."

At least he was aware of it. "Why didn't they change it back?"

Crane sighed. "They wait a few weeks with new medications to see if they'll level out. This is the end of my second week, so I didn't give them time to do that."

Some of the sympathy he felt for the man was lost. "Why not?"

"You try being hyper aware in Arkham for five minutes, and then try telling me to wait it out for three _weeks_." There was in edge in his tone which Crane looked shocked upon hearing, but went on anyway, voice picking up speed. "I know it was a bad idea, all right? I know I should have let the staff sort it out, but I couldn't. I _could not._ And I probably made the whole adjustment thing worse, if I'm ever going to adjust, by breaking out like this and making myself more stressed, but I didn't have a choice." He laughed, quietly and without humor. "It's ironic, you know that? The one time I was actually being good and they made me break out again. And I was just getting used to being back in Arkham."

_Good God. _He hoped that the current medicinal cocktail Crane was on did adjust to his system, for both of their sakes. Otherwise he may have to resort to gagging the man, and that wouldn't help matters in the slightest. He stood, fighting the urge to shake his head as Crane flinched again.

"I know you don't trust me. But you need to eat."

Crane sighed, this time more from tension than annoyance, by Batman's guess. "All right."

"Thank you." He went to the door, entered the access code, and exited as fast as possible, hoping the slam of the door was loud enough to overpower the sound of water. Then he sighed himself, making his way to the Joker's door and resisting the urge to go back upstairs and let the man starve. This was not going to be fun.

* * *

AN: The technobabble about the Joker's phone was entirely inspired by Koushun Takami's novel _Battle Royale_, in which one of the students has rigged his phone up that way. His cell, however, was hooked to a modem through a computer. I know it's possible to use a phone as a modem through your service provider, but I have no idea how the Joker would have set his up without a provider, or if it's even possible. If it's not, let's all just remember that Gotham is fictional to begin with and pretend it works.

Also, I just realized that in the last chapter, Joker using his phone in the Batcave implies that the Batcave has reception. Well, he's Bruce Wayne, he always has service.

The locations in Gotham City I mentioned are based on Eliot R. Brown's map.


	7. Paperclips

AN: Sorry about the delay, school got in the way of things.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

_Would it be so awful to let him starve?_

It took less than a second for his conscience to respond. _Yes. Yes, it would._

As important as his morals were, sometimes they were damn annoying. Even if they were the only thing keeping him from becoming as bad as the monsters he fought. He sighed, feeling a sense of irritation with himself for doing so. Batman was supposed be more than just a man, and displaying exasperation or fatigue in the suit, even when he was alone, felt almost like betraying the image he maintained. It made little sense, but then, there wasn't much sense in dressing like a bat to begin with. Not at first glance, anyway.

Holding back another sigh, he entered the security code to the other cell, braced himself and stepped inside.

"And here I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about little old me."

The Joker, currently facing away from him and attempting to untangle the disaster he'd made of his chains, tilted his head back to face him, eyes sparkling. He'd smeared his makeup at some point during the night, turning it back to the usual smudged mess, framed by tangled curls. He was pushing his tongue around inside his mouth again, judging from the movement of his cheeks, and the dress looked unsettlingly incongruous on his body.

It was a slap in the face to Rachel's memory, the dress. More than ever, he wished he didn't have a code against killing. This man had taken the woman who was going to wait for him, and now he had the audacity to defile Bruce's remembrance of her. He didn't deserve mercy. He deserved to be taken out and shot like the mad dog he was so fond of comparing himself to.

But tempting as it was, that wasn't his judgment to make. The failure on the behalf of the courts to realize the Joker was untreatable did not give him the right to take the law into his own hands. What he did was close enough to crossing a line as it was.

Though if the Joker kept winking at him like that, he wasn't sure he'd be able to hold back.

"You took my coat." He turned to face him now, chains clanking as he sucked on his scars from the inside, grimacing slightly.

"You're not getting it back."

"Not too tact_ful, _are ya?" The Joker scowled again, attempting to pull his arms out of the knot he'd appeared to have made in the chains, somehow. "You've got a lotta restraints, you know that?" He ran his tongue over his lips at that statement, slowly.

Batman knew exactly what he was about to imply and didn't give him the satisfaction of a response.

"_Bats_." He rolled his eyes. "It take two to, uh, converse. We're never gonna get anywhere if you don't use your words."

He didn't give that an answer, either.

"Remember when I called ya a D? That was speculation, for the most part, an, uh, educated guess if you will. Circumstantial evidence, you might call it." Having managed to untangle himself, he lay back on the mattress, shifting as he lay down on the chains. "Ya tend to go a _bit _overboard with the restraints whenever you throw me into the Batmobile, but that could always be an obsession with protecting your car." He giggled, at whatever thoughts were running through his head, Batman supposed. "Guys tend to be that way, ya know, if they feel they're—how do I put this delicately—_inadequate_ in other areas?" Another laugh. "I guess a guy running around fighting evil with his gazillion dollar toys _would_ be, uh, compensating for something. Never struck me as the type, but—"

"Do you have a point?" He wasn't sure why he responded. Maybe to distract himself from the way his eye had begun twitching involuntarily. Or to keep him from snapping the clown's neck.

"My point is, you're absolutely a D. This proves it. I mean, you've got me more chained up than Marley's ghost." He shook his arms to demonstrate his point, metal clanging, and mouth opening as if to let out a ghastly wail. What actually came out was a fit of laughter, or at least the rasping, choked noise that passed for his laugh. Whatever had struck him as funny was apparently hilarious enough to warrant hysterics that left him tangled in the chains once more as he kicked around.

It also left the skirt of his dress just as tangled, and riding up. Batman averted his eyes at a speed fast enough to make his vision blur, and even that wasn't quick enough. There were very few times in his life he'd been repulsed to the point of nausea, and this had just taken the top spot. With a barely perceptible shake of his head, he set the tray down as close to the mattress as he could make himself get and was about to turn for the door when the Joker stopped, abruptly, and bolted back into a sitting position.

Batman watched as the Joker's widened eyes darted back and forth for a moment before narrowing and settling down again, tongue shifting furiously around in his mouth. He looked…well, strange was the only way to put it. As if he'd almost gagged. Maybe he'd choked on his own saliva. Certainly he'd been laughing hard enough to do so.

Whatever had happened, the moment was over almost as swiftly as it had begun. With a shrug of his shoulders, he smirked and resumed trying to untangle himself. "Yeah, _def_initely a D. With some B thrown in. I can't lie down this way," he added, just when Batman thought he might have finally shut up.

Wishful thinking. As if the Joker would ever do that.

"You just did."

"It didn't _feel _good." His smirk faded, and Batman wondered if pain from lying on the chains had been the cause of his bizarre change in behavior. It didn't fit; he always seemed to enjoy being hurt. "I mean, pain's one thing when it's _powerful_ and _hard _and coming from a man in Kevlar slamming your head into, uh, reinforced glass, but when it's just lying on an uneven surface? That's beneath me."

"You're as low as it gets."

"Nice, Batsy, real nice." He tried unwrapping the leg chains from each other and only succeeded in getting his arms caught as well. "Look, _you're _the one who agreed to bring me back here in the first place, lover, so—"

"Do _not _ever call me that." He knew it was stupid, letting the Joker get under his skin. Stupid and dangerous, but that knowledge didn't change the fact that his blood seemed to be boiling in his veins and his vision had gone red. It was infuriating, how easily this madman could push him over the edge.

"Or you'll what?" In sharp contrast to Batman's growing rage, the Joker looked calm as ever. Amused, really, and relaxed, despite the fact that he'd managed to twist himself up so badly by now he was actually dangling a centimeter or so off the mattress. "Wanna hit me, honey? 'Cause we both know that won't do a bit of good…at least, not for _your _blood pressure." He tilted his head back so it was resting on the mattress once again, eyes closed and expression content. "I, on the other hand, have been _itching _for the uh, ex_cite_ment of another fight, so if you wanna get nasty, go right ahead."

"What do you want, Joker?" He wasn't sure, as happened so often around the clown, why he said it. There wasn't so much as a fraction of a chance that the Joker would give him a straight answer. He supposed it was to alter the conversation, since there was no chance of getting the man to ever truly shut up, short of cutting out his vocal cords, and they both knew it. Not that altering the conversation topic would make him any less irritating.

"I wanna spend time with you," the clown said simply, with an attempt to pull himself free that only ended up tugging him up on the chains, and then back down to his previous dangling position, like a yo-yo. "Is that so wrong?"

"Yes."

The Joker let his head tilt towards Batman again so the vigilante could see that he was rolling his eyes. "Nice. I haven't blown anyone up—yet, anyway—and I'm not _planning _to," he added, seeing the Batman's expression change at that. "Not unless ya don't gimme back my phone, and I haven't done anything more evil than walking down a street—"

"You broke out of Arkham and killed two guards in the process. Not to mention all of your other crimes."

"But people like that don't _matter_, Batsy. You and I, we're the only ones in the world that do. Well, and sometimes other people if they're, uh, entertaining at the moment, but not the way that you and I do."

"You're insane." He didn't know if the Joker said things like that because he honestly believed them, or out of some perverse need for attention. And he didn't want to know. Helpful as it may be to fully understand a mind like the Joker's when it came to apprehending him, the idea was revolting. And unsafe. The mere act of understanding what went on in the clown's head was like opening a door for the madness to leak into his own.

The Joker attempted to shrug while dangling in the air, an act that sent him crashing back onto the mattress. "You call it madness, but I call it love." He rolled onto his stomach, chewing on his scars again. "That's from, uh, Byas. Don Byas."

"I don't care." He was surprised, slightly, that the Joker knew of the man, but it wasn't as if a quote was going to change his views on the clown's obvious mental instability.

"Rude much?" The corners of his mouth turned down, though the hurt didn't reach his eyes. "Here I go, trying to explain myself to you, and ya just make _no _effort. No effort at all. Look, besides the guards you care about, God knows why, I haven't hurt anybody _this _time, have I?"

"You think wiring bombs into a building wouldn't hurt people?"

"I haven't deto_nat_ed those. What makes you think the bombs are around people, anyway?" The mockery of a frown vanished from his face, replaced by a grin that would have looked mischievous on anyone else. On him, it looked demonic. "There's lots you can ruin without actually _hurting _anyone. Like art museums, or research centers when they're closed, or—"

"Destruction of valuable or necessary property is—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You sound like a damn Boy Scout manual, do ya know that?" He smacked his lips. "I mean, if you put have as much energy into stopping crime as you do into your little, uh, soliloquies, I bet Gotham would have a zero per_cent _crime rate. Back to my point, though. I hadn't done anything wrong, and the bombs are only collateral to make sure I don't get carted back off to the nuthouse. Really, Batsy, as far as my schemes go, this is mild."

Right. And he'd just been off to volunteer at a soup kitchen after rescuing a kitten from a tree before he'd run into Crane. "And you were doing what, before I caught you?"

"Heading to the Palisades," the Joker said, brushing his fingers through his hair.

It was like a slap in the face, and Bruce had to force himself not to visibly react. _Does he—no, he can't know. It's only a coincidence. _Just because the Joker had been headed toward the part of Gotham housing Wayne Manor, the part they were in now, didn't mean he knew. How could he? And subtlety had never been one of the clown's strong points; if he knew, he'd tell. He'd have used that as the threat to get in here in the first place. He could have been heading to the Palisades for any number of reasons. It was where Gotham's richest lived, after all.

And the way the Joker was tilting his head at him now, expression confused, was the icing on the cake. He couldn't know. Batman felt himself relax, and hoped he hadn't done so visibly. "What's up with you, Bats?"

"What business did you have in the Palisades?"

"That's for me to know and for you to take these chains off to find out," the Joker said, singsong.

"Not a chance."

"Then you'll never know." He shrugged, frowning. "I have to sleep sitting up this way, ya know."

"Good."

"Jerk. I'm gonna need my phone again, right at noon." He glanced at his wrist, as though there was a watch there. "Unless—"

"I'll bring it." Sensing the conversation wasn't going to yield any hints to the location of the bombs, or achieve anything other than making him angrier, he turned for the door.

"Tell Jonny I said hello, would you?" the Joker called as he made his way out.

He didn't respond, slamming the door behind him. He pulled off the cowl, immediately feeling more human again, more open to express the anger and anxiety racing through him. The Batsuit gave a feel of power, a sense of duty when he had it on that kept him in line where he otherwise may have faltered, but the responsibility, the need to be more than just a man was draining.

He made his way to the elevator, hoping with all his heart that Alfred wasn't home yet. He did not have the energy to explain all this.

* * *

The moment the door was closed, the Joker slipped his fingers into his mouth, feeling them close around the slender pieces of metal inside.

Bats had never checked the mouth, in all of their encounters together. Joker wasn't sure if this was because he'd never hidden weapons there, or Batman hadn't thought of it, or because his breath was just that foul. Whatever the reason, that made it the perfect place for hiding his way out.

Paperclips. Paperclips straightened out and pushed against the inside of the teeth in his lower jaw, like braces wire in reverse. The Joker wasn't sure if he'd ever had braces. His teeth seemed straight enough to have had them, but when he tried to remember whether or not they'd actually been there, he couldn't recall. Like so many aspects of his life prior to donning the makeup, there was nothing but white noise where there should have been memories, with occasional flashes of a clear picture in the static.

Sometimes he wondered if he should be upset about this. But he didn't particularly _want _to remember, so he didn't dwell on it.

Anyway, the paperclips. Two of them, two slender, now curved wires that he pulled out of his mouth, keeping his head down so whatever security cameras Batsy surely had hidden in the room wouldn't pick it up. He'd almost lost one, in his giggling fit on the floor, when it had slid loose and he'd nearly choked. He'd had to push it back fast with his tongue, as he'd been doing all morning. Must have knocked them loose in his sleep somehow.

People said paperclips couldn't be used as lock picks. They could, though they were a crude method. The Joker was willing to employ crude methods if it meant avoiding detection. He had patience, and he had all the time in the world. He didn't even want to break out at the moment anyway. He was just sick of having the stuff in his mouth, scraping against his tongue. He waited a minute or so, then flopped back onto his stomach, ignoring the way the chains pushed into him as he let one hand drop down to the side of his mattress, shoving the wires underneath, keeping his hand over them the entire time, in case of cameras.

He didn't want to break out yet. But when he did, he'd be ready.

* * *

AN: I don't actually plan to explore the Joker's past. I thought I should bring that up because this chapter (and future ones) may make it seem like I'm going to.

Marley's ghost is from _A Christmas Carol._


	8. Bed Sheets

AN: Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

He removed the rest of the Batsuit as quickly as possible, and found, after a brief search of the rooms near him and a check over the intercom system for the rest, that Alfred hadn't returned yet. Relieved, he allowed himself to collapse onto the nearest couch and lay back, trying to ignore the anxiety and guilt coursing through him.

_There are dangerous madmen under the house, _the duty-driven part of his mind informed him, as if he'd forgotten.

_I know._ Pulling the Joker's phone from his pocket, he set the alarm so that if he fell asleep, he'd still wake in time to get the phone to the Joker before noon. _And I'm exhausted right now, so I'm going to try not to stress myself into a heart attack, for a few minutes._ He slid the phone back into his pocket, rested his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes.

Three seconds later they were open again. Because now even his own mind was against him. What was he doing? He should be gathering information, if not from interrogating the Joker then from going to the locations of the phones and searching for any sort of clue. He wasn't sure what sort of clue there would be—certainly the Joker wouldn't have allowed his men to wear the clown masks in public or leave prints on the phones—but there had to be something. He ought to be out there looking.

He knew that, but for once he realized there was no sense of running himself ragged. For once. _Alfred would be proud, _he thought with a slight smile, shifting to make his position more comfortable. Or maybe not. Bruce doubted he'd be too pleased to find out about the criminal lunatics under Wayne Manor. There were many things the man could take in stride—his decision to fight crime dressed as a bat, for example—but Bruce didn't think this would be one of them. Maybe if it had just been the Scarecrow, but the Joker? Not a chance.

_Yes, there might be evidence._ He pulled the phone out again, glanced at the time. _But there's not enough time before he needs this again to go out and get it. So I may as well use the time I have to try and relax._ He closed his eyes, settling back. That excuse worked for all of five seconds before his sense of responsibility jumped up again, reminding him that Crane and the Joker were both known for escaping captivity, and at the very least he should be in the surveillance room watching them. Holding in a sigh, Bruce consented, and would have gone to do just that, had he not fallen asleep first.

* * *

Sheets. The mattress had sheets, and that fact made the Joker absolutely giddy.

Not that the sheets themselves were interesting. Quite the opposite, actually. They were downright boring, in fact. White and plain. Like paper that needed to be scribbled on, or a canvas waiting to be filled with paint or blood or whatever substance happened to be on hand. It was like starting an Art Therapy session at Arkham, only there weren't any crayons or markers or paintbrushes to make pictures with. Just…white.

The walls weren't much better, rough gray cinder blocks without so much as a layer of paint over them to smooth them out. He was leaning up against the wall now, and the cement pushed uncomfortably against his skin through the dress. It was the same sort of pain that the chains had caused, so different than the pain from a punch in the face. It was a _boring _pain, much like the boring walls and sheets.

Still, at least the walls had texture. The sheets were soft and white and pointless. The only interesting thing about them was that they'd clearly been chosen _not_ to draw attention. The Joker was either the first person to be in this cell, or they'd been freshly washed, because fold lines still showed on the fabric. As if they'd been pulled out of a package and placed on the mattress with no one lying there to smooth them out. They weren't particularly nice sheets, though they seemed to be new, or gently used, anyway. Not too soft, nothing showy. They seemed to be the type a Bat could pick up in any supermarket, and the tags, as he discovered, had been cut off, so tracing the company was impossible.

He couldn't hold back laughter at that. How very Batsy, paranoid to the point that he thought his identity would be discovered through his sheets. It was things like that that made him love Batman so much. Someone who planned things so thoroughly he cut the tags off of his sheets, paired with someone who thought if a plan couldn't be altered in at least fifty ways per step if the need arose, it wasn't a good plan to begin with. It was a match made in madness, and the Joker wouldn't have it any other way.

The mattress still had that little "Do Not Remove" tag, though. That fact made him laugh so hard, he was almost worried he'd suffocate. He could just picture Bats removing the brand tag, but stopping at that one because laws must be upheld. Damn, he needed to get laid. It was almost sad, how uptight the man was, until he remembered that it was also hilarious.

But the sheets. The sheets were the important thing, not the mattress and its side-splittingly hilarious tag. These sheets would be useful, and as more than just protection from the cold. It was cold down here, not that the Joker was complaining. He'd never been much bothered by extreme temperatures, either hot or cold, but he did have to wonder how skinny little Scarecrow was doing over in his cell. It couldn't be much warmer than the low sixties, and the man had no body fat. Then again, he was full of straw, so that might help as an insulator.

Jonny was going to be so _whiny_ when they got out. Still, at least this time it seemed like he'd actually say so, as opposed to sitting there sulking as he was apt to do. His first act upon unchaining himself would have to be getting into the next cell over, and having some fun with his new Chatty Cathy. Oh, there was a nickname Jonny would just love. Or bitch endlessly about, but it would still be entertaining. Thank God for Arkham and its medication regime, making life endlessly amusing.

He didn't take the meds, of course. They were pointless and irritating and usually made him throw up, so ninety-nine percent of the time they ended up down the toilet or in someone else's food. Except for the injected sedatives.

Shifting gears again, though, the sheets. They would also work perfectly to shield himself from the security cameras when he picked the locks. It wouldn't be for a while, though. This place was no worse than Arkham. Better, actually, because the cell was more spacious. A window would have been nice, though. He didn't like being locked up much. At all, really. One of the main reasons he never stayed at Arkham.

But even with the whole confinement thing, he was in no hurry to get out. He was guaranteed to see Batman at least twice a day for the phone calls, and more than that supposing that Bats decided to keep feeding him. And that was one hell of a perk. He could cheerfully have stayed locked up for a number of weeks if it meant seeing Batman twice or more on a daily basis.

Well, maybe not weeks. These chains were rather annoying. Even so, talking to Batsy was like all the joy of Christmas and the excitement of a nuclear holocaust wrapped into one. This was about the closest the Joker was probably going to get to some kind of heaven. And he wanted to make the most of it.

The best thing about Bats was that when the Joker talked, he listened. He might not answer or agree. No, usually he was shaking his head in disgust or shouting back retorts that the Joker couldn't make himself pay attention to, despite his best efforts. Still, he listened. And the Joker was good at getting to people by talking. Harvey, Harley, and Jonny were living proof of that. He was curious to see just how far he could push the Bat, how close he could drive him to the edge he'd pushed everyone else off of.

Not that he thought Batsy would go over the edge. He didn't think he wanted him to, deep down. Then Bats would be as boring as everyone else. But pushing was fun, if only to see how far it got.

* * *

Thank God for the bed sheets. Right now, they were the only thing reminding Jonathan Crane that he hadn't died and ended up in hell.

Because everything else about this situation was just as bad as the fire and brimstone rants his great-grandmother had been so fond of giving. There might not be unbearable flames or demons ripping apart his flesh, but he was beginning to think those might be preferable to this torture.

It hadn't even been his fault this time. He hadn't wanted to break out, for once. Not to say that he wanted to stay, but his plan had been to play along with the doctors until he was released. Honestly, his last few breakouts had been so stressful that he'd been looking forward to the period of relaxation Arkham provided. The therapy sessions were always annoying as hell, and the food atrocious, but beyond that the place wasn't so bad.

But no, they had to go and tamper with the already massive amount of medications he was on. Because they just couldn't leave well enough alone. Never mind the fact that he was a psychopharmacologist himself, and was perfectly satisfied with his meds. Well, not perfectly satisfied, what he wanted more than anything was to not need them at all. Unfortunately, thanks to the brain damage the Batman had caused by force feeding him his own toxin, that wasn't going to happen. Not unless he wanted to go back to the hallucinating, panicked, self-mutilating mess he became without the meds.

No. That was the only thing that could possibly be worse than this situation. He'd rather die than go back to that.

Intellectually, he knew he should have waited it out. Let them go back to the old medications after the trial period and continue on with his original plan. However, logic had little sway over the emotional state the drugs had put him in. Hyper awareness was miserable under any circumstance, but in Arkham? Living hell. It wasn't that he didn't want to stay. It was that he could not do it. He couldn't remain at the asylum with his mind like that anymore than he could walk on water. It simply wasn't possible.

Not that they were going to accept that as an excuse, when he got back. _If _he got back. God only knew what the Batman planned to do with them, or the Joker's incentive for coming here in the first place. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good. Jonathan knew from experience that whatever the Joker found amusing tended to be either terrifying or painful, or both, and the Joker had seemed very amused by this plan.

It really wasn't fair.

For once in his life he'd been trying to go along with the doctors—all right, so trying to con them into believing he was doing that, but it was practically the same thing—and it ended up like this. He imagined his current predicament was some sort of cosmic sign that he should just give up. He hadn't even been manic until they altered his meds, no matter what the psychiatrists said. What did they know? They also thought he was a narcissist, which remained the stupidest thing he ever heard. Just because his intellect was far superior and he knew it, that didn't mean he had a personality disorder. People couldn't appreciate genius, that was the trouble with the world.

And now he was stuck here, which was hardly better. Out for less than forty-eight hours, discovered by the Batman when trying to recover supplies, and chased around the city. And the moment he'd managed to evade the Bat, he literally ran into the Joker, who'd for no conceivable reason decided to drag him along into this madness. And knocked him out in the process. There was a rather large bruise where Jonathan was assuming he'd been struck in the throat—he couldn't remember exactly what had happened—that was still sore.

At least it was better than the time the Joker had broken his ribs. That was a small comfort.

Too small, however, to make this situation any less hellish. Under ordinary circumstances, he wouldn't mind being locked up, but these were hardly ordinary circumstances. Back when he'd been taken reasonable medications, being confined wasn't so bad. Actually, it was kind of nice, being closed off from the madness surrounding him, giving space to breath and think. Before becoming hyper aware, he'd been able to ignore most of the surrounding sounds and other distractions while in his cell.

With hyper awareness, though, he had no idea how he'd ever blocked them out. There was no way to filter out the sensory information he was receiving anymore. His body couldn't seem to adjust to the coolness of the room, hence his gratitude for the sheets, and every draft of air made him shiver. There was a constant dripping from somewhere outside that he doubted he'd even have noticed under normal circumstances, that was slowly but surely working in the same way that Chinese water torture did, and driving him absolutely mad. The slight flicker of the light bulb seemed to make the shadows dance on the walls, and despite being restrained for the better part of a day now, the chains were still agonizing. He could not handle the way they brushed against his skin. Damn Batman. Why did he need this many chains anyway?

Jonathan supposed he could stop eating for a while, maybe lose enough weight to be able to slide his wrists and ankles out of the restraints. But the Batman surely had security cameras planted in the cell, and would realize that he was starving himself. And then question him on it, and thanks to his current inability to be quiet, he'd just end up confessing the entire plan and getting himself fed by IV or something miserable. Besides, he'd come too close to starving in the past, and trying it again could have serious ramifications on his health.

There was another option, but it was too painful to think about, at the moment. Maybe if he hadn't been jumping at the slightest sound, but he didn't want to expend the energy to consider it now. He was exhausted, though his mind was racing too quickly for him to sleep. It was a miracle he'd gotten any sleep at all, the state he was in. The light being constantly on and the fact that he was a prisoner in the lair of his greatest enemy weren't helping either.

He tried to find a comfortable way of lying on the mattress and gave up, pulling the sheets over his head and closing his eyes against the assault of the flickering lights. This was miserable. Absolutely miserable.

Well, the toast had been good, but everything else sucked.

* * *

Bruce woke up when he heard a door open, and for a blissful few seconds lay there, not remembering the events of the night and morning. Then it came flooding back, and he was overcome by the urge to go right back to sleep and pretend it was someone else's problem. As if someone else could don the Batsuit and go downstairs to give the Joker his—

_The phone_. He bolted upright as he remembered, pulling it from his pocket. Had he slept through the alarm? Had the bombs gone off?

No. Still an hour left before noon. He breathed a sigh of relief, then remembered the sound that had woke him and tensed again. A door. Had one of them gotten out of the cells, or both? He stood as quietly as possible, glancing around the room for anything that could be used as a weapon. Nothing, unless he wanted to take a book from the shelf and bludgeon the Joker with it.

What had he been thinking, falling asleep with criminals captive under the house? And not just any criminals, two of the most dangerous lunatics in Gotham City. One of them being _the _most dangerous. If he got killed, it would serve him right, for his stupidity. But Alfred…he couldn't let anything happen to the man. It was his fault the Joker and the Scarecrow were there to begin with, and he couldn't let Alfred suffer for his idiocy. _Suppose they've already come across him?_

That thought pushed him into action, and he took off toward the direction the sound had come from, grabbing the thickest book within reach as he did. He was more than likely going to be killed. But hopefully, Alfred would be safe.

He stepped into the hallway, heart nearly giving out as his eyes register that there was a figure standing there. Thankfully, his mind registered who the figure was a split second before he attacked.

"Morning, Master Wayne."

"Alfred," he said stupidly, brain too preoccupied with slowing the flood of adrenaline to do anything but state the obvious. He registered the purple trench coat in Alfred's hands.

"You left the door to the surveillance room open, sir," he said, following Bruce's gaze.

He felt guilt replacing his panic. This was like being a child again, being caught by Alfred or one of his parents after breaking a rule. "I—Alfred, the Joker is—"

"In the cave, sir? I noted that on the security monitors. Along with Dr. Crane, I believe?" His tone was flat, for the moment, face emotionless. Bruce couldn't tell if that meant Alfred was waiting for an explanation before passing judgment or if he was so disgusted he couldn't bring himself to express it.

"I was going to tell you."

"I should hope so, Master Wayne." There was the faintest glimmer of amusement in his tone, which Bruce took as a good sign. Prayed it was, anyway. "I like to be informed when we're having houseguests."

"I can explain."

"Indeed, sir?"

He opened his mouth to do just that, and realized he had no idea where to begin.

* * *

AN: A Chatty Cathy is a talking doll. I don't think they make them anymore, but they used to be quite popular.


	9. Panda

AN: Sorry about the delay, midterms and Waffle Night got in the way.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

"And now they're locked up in the cave."

Explaining the situation to Alfred only made it sound all the more idiotic. No, idiotic wasn't the right word. He wasn't sure there was a word for how stupid this was. Not in the English language, anyway. The fact that Alfred had yet to respond wasn't helping. The butler had remained motionless through whole of the explanation, aside from the occasional nod or glance to the security monitors; he'd insisted on returning to the surveillance room to hear the explanation. That unnerved Bruce, possibly more than the villains locked up in the cave did.

It was the same sort of expression the man had worn when Bruce told him of his plan to become Batman. He could still remember the dread he'd felt upon explaining that, the seconds before Alfred responded seeming like years as his heart hammered in his chest. Some days, it still floored him that Alfred hadn't had him committed after hearing that. Expecting for a similar reaction now would be tempting fate.

Which made it all the more stunning when Alfred's response was nothing more than a nod, and a clearing of the throat. "I'd say this is the most ridiculous risk you've ever taken, but considering the danger you put yourself in on a nightly basis, it would seem a bit lackluster."

Bruce couldn't help but feel relieved, even if he was being told off. "So you don't think I've completely lost it?"

"Not completely, Master Wayne. But you're certainly getting there." He looked annoyed, the sort of look Bruce used to get in childhood when he was caught somewhere he shouldn't be, say, climbing the shelves in the pantry to get to the condensed milk or something similar. But he didn't look disappointed, at that was an immense relief. "You do realize your guests are rather gifted in the art of escape?"

He nodded. "But at least we'll actually be watching the security cameras. And I'm not about to be talked into sympathizing with either of them and letting them escape." That was how around half of the Arkham breakouts occurred, negligent guards or easily manipulated ones.

Of course, the other half took place by either extreme violence, or brilliantly psychotic escape attempts. Like the time the Joker had broken out using a _spork_, judging from the security footage. Bruce made a note not to serve his captives anything that required silverware. Or at least to be sure and get it back if he did.

"Even so." Alfred shook his head, glanced at the monitors. Bruce followed his gaze to watch the Joker's black and white form onscreen. The clown appeared to be examining the tag on the mattress, before suddenly falling back onto the bed in what appeared to be a laughing fit. Or possibly screaming, but that seemed unlikely. Not that shouting was out of character for the man; he was fond of yelling double entendres or belting show tunes at Batman during their encounters, but wordless screaming didn't fit him. "I can't help but feel uneasy as long as they're here."

"I'll get them out as soon as I find the explosives his men planted." However long that would take. Assuming the bombs existed to begin with. But if they did, there'd be some sort of clue, and he'd find a way to track them down. He had far too much motivation not to do so. And there was the rare, so-unlikely-it-was-hardly-worth-considering possibility that the Joker might break under true confinement, assuming Bruce could hold him any better than Arkham. Well, not break, but get bored of being locked up. Unpredictable as the Joker was, it was entirely possible that he would give up the location of the bombs or his men out of tedium, or simply to screw with Batman's mind.

Entirely possible, but absolutely implausible. World peace would be attained before that would happen. Eons before. Judging from the footage and the clown's behavior, he was having the time of his life.

"And if there are no explosives, sir?"

"I give you full permission to say to remind me that I should have ignored everything he said and hauled him back to Arkham to begin with. Loudly and often."

"As long as it's with your blessing." He smiled, and though the smile was small and terse, Bruce couldn't help but feel relieved again. Alfred stood, glancing at his watch. "Speaking of explosives, shouldn't you be suiting up to bring the phone back to him?"

Bruce pulled the phone from his pocket, glancing at the display screen. Twenty minutes to noon. "So it would seem."

His butler walked to the doorway, stopped, turned. "Master Wayne?"

"Yes?"

"I trust you weren't planning on starving these men?"

_If only. _"You're offering to make them lunch, Alfred?" It would never fail to amaze Bruce, how Alfred could act in the same manner he always had and still manage to surprise him.

"I believe your cooking would fall under cruel and unusual punishment, sir."

He rolled his eyes. "Just don't make them anything that requires forks or something, all right?"

"Your company's not worth getting the silver out, then?"

"Not worth giving them potential weapons, no."

"Duly noted. Master Wayne?" he added, as Bruce walked through the doorway.

"Yes, Alfred?"

"Be careful." The humor was gone from his tone, replaced by a slight reprimand, but mostly worry. It occurred to him that just like Alfred was the closest thing he had to a parent anymore, he was the closest thing his butler had to a son. And Alfred's worry hurt more than his anger had. Anger, Bruce was used to, he'd grown up receiving it from nearly everyone. Aside from Alfred, who rarely lost his temper no matter how far Bruce went out of line.

But worry…that was different. It reminded him of the risk more, for whatever reason, reinforced the fact that whatever happened with the madmen in his cells would affect more than just him. If they escaped, Alfred would be at risk as well, and beyond that, if anything happened to Bruce, Alfred would suffer, be it physically or only emotionally. _I have got to get them out of here. As soon as I possibly can._

"I will."

* * *

He didn't quite throw the phone at the Joker—he didn't want to risk breaking it—but it was close. "Call."

"Well, _that's _friendly." The clown had finally untangled the chains, though he looked more disheveled than ever and the sheets were half shoved off the mattress. "Aren't you even going to ask how I've—"

"Now."

"Jerk." He scowled, picked up the phone, and dialed. Thirty seconds or so of tense silence followed, before Batman could hear a faint voice from the other end of the line. "Yeah, it's me." A pause. "No." He pressed the end button, flipped the cell shut. "Happy now, Bats?"

"Give it back."

He sighed. "You are so _boring._" The Joker lay back on the mattress, head resting on his hands. "Why should I? Come over here and take it if ya want it."

Batman glared at him, only the knowledge that Alfred was surely watching this in the surveillance room keeping him from grabbing onto the Joker's tangled hair and slamming his head into the wall that way. "No."

"Then you're not getting it back, Batsy, sorry." He smirked, licked his lips. It was nauseating to watch.

"It isn't wise to provoke the man deciding whether or not you starve."

"As if you're going to withhold food from me." But he sat up, holding out the phone, albeit rolling his eyes as he did. "You're too much of an upstanding, moral, tag-not-removing—" And whatever he had been going to say was lost as he began giggling, apparently amused by something he'd said. Or seen, or possibly imagined, God only knew what went on in his twisted mind. Whatever it was, it struck the Joker as funny enough that he fell back on the mattress laughing, the phone dropping from his hand and onto the cement an few inches below.

Batman took advantage of the clown's distraction to take the phone and set the tray of food down. He remained in a defense stance as he did, ready to react should the Joker send so much as a wrong look in his direction, but he didn't. He stepped back, waited for his captive to stop laughing. "What do you want, Joker?"

"There's an interesting question." He sat up, wiping tears from the corner of his eyes, mixing the black paint with the white and turning it a sickly gray. He looked like a leper. Or at least, how Bruce imagined a leper would look. "When I was a kid, I wanted a puppy more than anything in the world. I mean, I didn't even care what kind. I would have taken any mutt, Bats. Hell, I probably would have taken a, uh, rat or something if it was big enough. Some of those stupid little tiny dogs are close enough anyway, aren't they? Doesn't it just piss ya off, those stupid so-called celebrities that carry 'em around in their purses? They've got legs for a reason, bitch. Anyway, I really, really wanted a puppy, but my parents told me I wasn't responsible enough for one, and besides—"

"Enough." He was beginning to wonder if the Joker's problem was immaturity as opposed to insanity. Well, the main problem was being a heartless, depraved bastard, but insanity came close.

"But I'm answering your _ques_tion," he protested, pouting. "Ya can't get mad at me for doing what you asked, Batsy. You're sending mixed signals, you know that?"

"Joker—"

"I mean, that's like the first thing they teach the shrinks at Arkham, according to Harley. Ya gotta be consistent. Otherwise, you're just gonna confuse the hell out of the patients. Consistency. It's like, uh, training a puppy. God, I wanted a puppy."

"What do you want _now_?" he demanded, grinding his teeth. "What do you hope to accomplish from being here?" Whatever it was, it wasn't going to happen. The Joker would have to step over his cold, dead body to get out of this cell, let alone out of the caves.

Unfortunately, considering that this was the Joker, that wasn't too unlikely of an occurrence.

"Accomplish?" the Joker repeated. He blinked, tongue running over his lips and lingering on the scars. "Ac. Com. Plish?"

"I'm not in the mood for games." It was almost funny, how much of an understatement that was. He'd always thought 'seeing red' was an expression, something that wasn't really possible. It turned out that it was.

"Oh." He pouted again. "Well, that's too bad, Bats. Because that's all I'm here to do."

"Meaning?" There was danger in his tone, and a saner man might have noted it. If the Joker noticed or cared, however, it didn't show.

"Meaning I just wanna spend time with ya, friend." He made his eyes wide, likely going for a Bambi look but managing to come off as possessed. "I'm not trying to gain anything, other than having fun. With you."

Yes, it was definitely possible to see red. He had no idea how, but he was certainly seeing it. "You make me sick."

"And you make me happy," the Joker said, smile getting wider by the second. "Which is why I wanted to be here. I don't see what you're so mad about, Batsy, I mean, I'm off the streets and all. I'm not hurting anybody. I even gave you the Scarecrow. Lighten up, man."

If Batman held the phone any tighter, it would be in serious danger of crushing.

"Really, what are ya so mad about?" The Joker lay down on the mattress, propped himself up on his elbows, shifting around on the chains beneath him. "Are you just pissed that you have to put on the suit every time ya wanna yell at me? Unless you walk around in it. Or like, with the hood and cape off but the armor and eye paint still on? So you sorta look like a, uh, panda? Or a raccoon, but pandas are more interesting. Where do you get the paint anyway? Maybe we use the same stuff." He waited for a response and upon getting none, poked the sandwich on his tray. "Peanut butter?"

"Is there a problem with that?"

"I _might_ just might be allergic."

_Good. _"Then go hungry."

"_Kidding._" He sat up the rest of the way and crossed his arms, chains rattling. "Loosen up." He uncrossed his arms, looked down at the tray again, and to Batman's completely and under bewilderment, took his right hand and crossed himself.

Before he could question this, the Joker had closed his eyes.

"Dear God, bless this food for its intended use and any unintended uses I can come up with for it, and if I do think of some alternate uses, please let them be either hilarious or disturbing as hell. Please help Batman to lighten up, because I'm really, really worried about his health, as stressed as he makes himself. I'd say help him pull the stick out of his ass, but at this point I'm pretty sure there's a whole damn tree up there. And a big tree, like one of those redwoods in California that's been there since you created the earth."

Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. So there was absolutely nothing that the Joker held sacred. He wasn't sure why that surprised him at this point. He fought the urge to shake his head—even if the Joker's eyes were closed, he didn't want to give him the satisfaction of a visible reaction. Which made no sense. Maybe madness was contagious. He turned for the door.

"Well, whatever tree it is, 'cause you'd know better than me, please use your, uh, Weed Killer of Faith or whatever to help him out. And please don't let Jonny-boy have a heart attack, because he's very amusing when his meds are fucked up, and I'd like to keep messing with him. So please don't kill him or let his meds level out before I see him again. And give all the puppies in the world a good home or at least an abandoned baby or two to munch on, and protect the pandas as well. And let all the stupid bitches that carry dogs in their purses lose their feet and die of gangrene. Ame—"

Batman slammed the door behind him and fought the urge to break something.

* * *

AN: I'm not sure if I'll be able to update tomorrow, sorry, because I'm going home for spring break (which should mean more frequent updates next week) and I'll be tired in the morning due to seeing Watchmen at midnight tonight.


	10. Painting

AN: So yeah, sorry about the delay. Getting home took several hours, and then I was exhausted from the midnight showing. _Watchmen_ was phenomenal, in my humble opinion.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

The Joker woke up bleeding.

It took him a moment to realize. Before that little occurrence got his attention, he was first struck by the fact that he'd managed to fall asleep lying down. And it hurt, the same boring way the restraints always hurt, only now they were poking in the his sides and back. His wrists and ankles itched and ached from where the things were shackled on, and by the feel of it, one of the chains had gotten behind his head and was tangled in his hair, pulling it.

Stupid Bat bondage. If it wasn't so damn arousing, he might hate it completely.

He sat up, in a slow, cautious manner that didn't suit him at all. It still felt like he'd pulled a dozen or so strands of hair out. There was a tray of food on the floor, which he took as sign that he'd slept through breakfast. Well, that was rude of Bats, not to wake him. It was surely cold by now.

He made a note, as he bit into a piece of toast that was indeed cold as a cadaver, not to mention religion around Batman again. He supposed it was a touchy subject, and Batsy apparently either didn't like it or didn't like being prayed for. He hadn't said a word to the Joker the previous night when he brought him dinner, and he'd only said 'call' before the Joker made the phone call at midnight. Not a skilled speaker, the Bat.

Jonny didn't like religion either, come to think of it. He'd mentioned that the time he got drunk, going off on a rant about all the bad religious zealots had done in the world before having a sudden laughing fit about the wallpaper in their apartment. Drunken Jonny had been more entertaining than a room full of hostages, come to think of it. He wondered what the chances were of getting Bats to let them drink together. Probably slim to none, and slim was getting on a bus out of town.

So no more praying for Batsy. At least not out loud. The toast was cold and the bread multigrain and the jelly a raspberry that was similar in color to those strange red stains on the sheets.

_Wait, what?_

The Joker dropped the toast back onto the tray, reached down for the sheets. He stopped when he noticed that the funny red stuff was also on his wrists and hands around the manacles, and that it was, quite obviously, blood.

He must have thrashed around in his sleep enough to make him cut himself. He didn't sleep very gently in captivity, or so he'd been told. Harley and Jonny had never complained about it when he shared a bed with them, so it was his theory that he slept fine in an apartment or a dumpster or whatever wasn't a cell. According to the shrinks at Arkham, though, he tended to sleep rather violently in his cell. He wasn't sure why. He didn't remember having any nightmares. Sometimes he'd wake up in the middle of the night and feel as if he _should _feel scared or upset or something, but he never was and he never knew why. There was only static, on the rare occasion he'd tried to think about what had made him wake up.

Not that he really cared why. Probably, it was just his body's way of saying how much he disliked his surroundings.

He certainly disliked having these cuts on his wrists. They were boringly painful, and itchy, and he felt slightly nauseous looking at them. He had nothing against blood, obviously. His profession would _definitely _have been the wrong line of work, if he had. It was just weird, somehow. Self-inflicted injuries pissed him off and turned his stomach.

He wasn't sure why that was. He wasn't squeamish in the least. He liked cutting people open and poking their spleens and such. Another reason knives were far superior to guns. But self-inflicted wounds, they were either made out of stupidity or a misguided need for control. And he was all about chaos, and not stupid in the least. So it offended his sensibilities. Like the way Jonny was always biting on his nails. Revolting.

And to have cut himself, that was a new class of disgusting. Even if it was in his sleep. Cuts like this would have been made by repeated motion and the fact that his body had kept tugging against the restraints unconsciously, for long enough to draw blood, felt like a betrayal.

With the tiniest shake of his head he took the sheets in hand, preparing to wipe off the blood. Then stopped, an idea coming to mind.

What was it he'd been thinking yesterday? That the sheets were like a canvas in need of paint?

Might as well make the most of a bad situation. With that in mind, he untangled himself as well as he could—he'd somehow managed to make knots in the chains that he doubted would ever come out, short of breaking the links—and removed the sheets from the mattress. With a brief giggle at the uncovered 'Do Not Remove' tag, he spread the sheets on the cold cement floor. There were large blood stains in a few places from the one that had been on top, and smaller ones on the other. Still, they left enough white space for him to express his creativity. With a smile he knelt down in front of them, and pushed a finger under one of the cuffs, smearing it across the cut. It came back coated in blood, and the Joker tried to ignore the slightly queasy feeling that gave him.

He brought his hand over a sheet, pondered for a second, and began to draw.

* * *

He'd been at it for about half an hour or so, by his estimate, before the cell door came crashing open, swinging back so quickly the Bat barely had time to get through before it was shut once more.

"'Lo, Batsy," he said, not bothering to look up from the lake and mountains he'd been making. He wondered if it wasn't missing something. Maybe a happy little tree or two. Though right now the lake was demanding his full creativity. It was hard to make reflections and ripples when all he had to work with was one shade of red. It was taking more time than anything so far.

And there had been lots beforehand: giraffes, grenades, a dragon he was particularly proud of, a few aliens harvesting organs, and so on. The sheets were far more entertaining now; the only downside was that to keep on drawing, he had to keep pushing against the chains to keep the cuts from scabbing over, and making himself bleed made him sick. So he kept drawing to distract himself, meant more cutting, which meant more drawing.

A vicious cycle. But an entertaining one as well.

"What are you doing?" Batman had moved forward, now rather rudely standing on one of the sheets. It wasn't the one he was working on at the present, but the Bat's boot was obscuring his nice little drawing of the man's tank with the caption 'It's called a Batmobile.' He would have been annoyed, if it was anyone but Batsy.

"Brightening up the room."

"Stop that."

The Joker wasn't sure how he felt about the way Bats usually talked to him. It was boring, clearly, and they needed to work on that, but there was more to it. Batman treated him like a child, like an overworked parent bossing his kid around. On one hand, that was a sign of familiarity between them, which was always good, but on the other, the love of his life should not view him as a child. That would be all kinds of squicky. Even for him.

"I'm having _fun_," he protested, giving up on the water for a moment and starting on one of those happy little trees. It occurred to him that he should have made this picture bigger; it would have been nice to add himself and Batsy having a picnic on the waterfront, but it was too small to try that. "I'm expressing myself, Bats, and I'm doing it in a way that doesn't involve destroying property and or people. Ya can't yell at me for that. Hell, this is a therapy method at Arkham. It's _helpful_."

"Not if it's your blood." He sounded repulsed, on top of his anger. The Joker had yet to look up to gauge his expression, he didn't want to let slip that he was somewhat skeeved out as well. And Batman's disgust was lessening his own; making Batsy uncomfortable put him back in his element.

"So get me a pen or something." He added leaves as best he could. "Or a pencil. Pencils are more entertaining."

"Stop."

"_Fine._" The tree was finished anyway. He sat up, sucking the excess blood from his fingers and smirking at the way the Bat grimaced. "It's not noon yet, is it?" It didn't feel like noon. Of course, people isolated from clocks or the outside world tended to have slight shifts in their biological clocks, moving from a twenty-four hour day to a twenty-four and a half. Or something like that.

"No."

His smirk morphed into a genuine smile. Batman looked just as pained at this as he had at the blood sucking. "You can down to visit me? I'm flattered, I really am."

"I came down here to stop you from doing that." It was funny how he always retorted so quickly to statements like that. As if he was afraid of his manhood being called into question or something. Which it absolutely wasn't. If Batman ever were to go completely mad and start ravishing him, the Joker would let him be on top. He wanted to be completed, after all.

Besides, sex could be a mind game if one did it right, and he was very good at topping from the bottom.

"Oh." It figured. "Ya know, it kinda hurts that you only come down here for business purposes. One might get the impression that one's presence isn't appreciated."

"You slashed your wrists to get attention." That disgusted tone again. The Joker couldn't see what he was so torn up about. It wasn't his blood.

"_Act_ually, your chains did that." He rattled them, as he'd become so fond of doing. It was like music, only with less melody and more clanging. "See, this is why people usually _pad _cuffs before they lock people in 'em. 'Course, that would go against your natural desires, wouldn't it, and I like pain, so—"

"Enough."

To the Joker's astonishment, which he kept hidden, and sheer delight, which he did not, Bats sat down beside him. Well, kneeled really, and without getting onto the mattress, but the details weren't important. "Give me your hands."

He blinked. "What?"

Batman didn't bother to repeat himself, instead reaching out and grabbing hold of the Joker's arms, pulling them forward. He felt confusion that was almost entirely overpowered by his excitement for what was to come. Excitement that faded as the Bat held him in place with one hand, the other pulling something from his utility belt that turned out to be a miniature first aid kit. Oh. So he wasn't in for a Bat beating.

"Don't move."

He was opening his mouth to say something snarky and likely sexual in response—he tended not to plan things before he said them, which was probably why Batsy hit him so often—but then disinfectant hit his wrist and he was unable to keep from twitching a bit. The burn of alcohol on a cut was that same bad pain, unless it was poured there by reason of sadism.

This, however, was done to prevent infection. And given how much Batman disliked him, the Joker doubted it was out of any real concern, but rather not wanted to deal with a clown going through septic shock. Still, the way Bats was touching him felt wrong, somehow. He wasn't cleaning the wounds gently, exactly, but he wasn't trying to hurt him, as he should be. That was one of the things the Joker loved about his Bat, he always did things with unnecessary force. It was a sign that they were not so different. He didn't like this at all. It made his stomach do that thing it had done when he realized he'd accidentally cut himself.

"I said don't move." His hands were held more forcefully in place, and he smirked, feeling a bit more at ease. He tried moving again and it became downright painful. The good pain. He moaned, softly. The corner of the Batman's mouth twitched.

"You're so…_caring_, Bats," he said, with a giggle. There was gauze going around a wrist now, almost tight enough to cut off his circulation. It felt great. "What was the name of that nurse who fell in love with her patient, Florence Nightingale or—"

The hand doing the wrapping let go, which made the bandages go sadly looser, but being slapped across his face more than made up for it. He couldn't help but laugh. "Your bedside manner could use a bit of work."

"If you don't shut up—"

"Why so angry?" He tried to stop laughing and failed completely. "Really, calm down. Can you imagine how high your blood pressure must be right now? You're digging yourself into an early grave, my friend."

"As if you care."

He giggled again. He knew it pissed Batsy off and was bad for the discussion, but he couldn't help it. "There's this thing my psychiatrist told me about, called projection, right? It's a defense mechanism people use when they don't wanna deal with stuff. See, they take qualities or problems of their own and _project _'em onto somebody else. Hence 'projection.' Now it all makes sense, right? This guy tried to say that I was using it because I felt that—"

"If you have a point, make it."

He scowled for a second or so. "Nice. I sincerely hope ya don't have kids, because if _this _is how you communicate, they're gonna grow up to be pretty fucked up. Anyway, you're totally projecting your hate for me onto me. Of course I care, Batsy. I care about you. I _love _you."

"You don't know what love is."

He considered making a comment about why the Batman had devoted any thought to whether or not the Joker could feel love, but decided against it. He had plans for this conversation, and when he got sidetracked, he tended to stay that way. "Your opinion. Anyway, I happen to like you rather a lot. You entertain me, and anyway, I wouldn't exist without you." He paused at that, licking his lips and twitching his mouth as if to indicate that he was about to continue. He had no plans to, unless Bats took the bait.

And he did, to the Joker's glee. "What are you talking about?"

He smirked at Batsy's oh so controlled tone as he asked. The statement had thrown him off guard and he was trying to hide it, but just because he was a hard book to read, that didn't make him _impossible. _You could still see the twists and bends ahead in a river by leaning forward far enough. "I like you?" he asked innocently.

"After that." Ooh, and now he was angry too.

"You created me." His smirk widened at the look behind the Bat's mask, almost painfully so. "What? You hadn't realized that little fact?"

"I did not—"

"Did so." The Joker's mind was racing to counteract all his arguments before he could slow down the train of thought with them. "No, ya didn't cut these into my face," he traced a finger along the scars, "and we never met before I started robbing the mob and threatening Gotham."

"So what's your point?"

He was giggling once more. Why oh why did Bats let himself get dragged into these talks? Didn't he realize how badly he was screwing himself over by talking to the Joker at all? "My point is, you gave me the _idea_. You and your…theatricality. See, vigilantes aren't rare, Batsy. But most suck, and most certainly don't dress up like flying rodents. You in_spir_ed me to act this way. You know those kids who watch superhero cartoons and decide they can fly too? Same principle, only I didn't break my neck jumping off a roof. I'm actually competent."

"I did _not _create you." The hands holding his wrists, which had long since stopped wrapping the gauze in place, tightened. "Do not try to pin the blame for the things you've done on _me_."

He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself of that, the Joker noted, amused, and remembered all the people he'd killed trying to force Bats to reveal himself. No doubt the man blamed himself for all of it, for no good reason. Consciences sucked. The Joker was glad he didn't have one.

"You _chose _to be this way, Joker."

"True. But how do you know that without somebody like _yourself_ to oppose, I wouldn't have just stayed wherever the hell I was before you came along?" Something shifted behind the Batman's mask, and that made him giddy. "What's the point in ripping off mob dealers in a clown suit if ya know nobody can stop ya? Face it, Batsy, you were the straw that broke the camel's back. You're the reason I'm here to begin with. So tell me, how does that feel?"

He was aware that he was pissing Batman off, and tempting a lot of delicious pain. But he was even more aware that he was getting under the Bat's skin, and digging away at his nerves and certainty like this was going to be even more fun than painting on the sheets.

* * *

AN: 'Happy little trees' refers to Bob Ross's _The Joy of Painting _show. It was a show that consisted of making various paintings, usually of nature, and there would almost always be a 'happy little tree' in the paintings.

What Joker says about the sense of time changing when isolated from nature is true, but I can't remember what the perception of a day changes to. Twenty-four and a half hours is a guess.


	11. Excuses

AN: As it turns out, a person isolated from the sunlight and clocks and things begins operating on a twenty-five hour day schedule, not twenty-four and a half. Thanks to Mannariel for pointing that out!

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

The gauze on his wrist was tugged again, ripped, taped. It _was _tight enough to cut off the circulation this time. Well, not cut it off completely. But certainly it slowed it. The pain was beautiful, and that combined with the anger and uncertainty plain on what he could see of Batman's face pushed him over the edge. He could feel himself going hard as the Bat began wrapping his other wrist.

"You didn't answer the question, Batsy."

"I am _not_ the reason you're here."

"Back to that again?" He clicked his tongue, disappointed, and moaned when the gauze was forcefully taped down. "I thought we discussed this."

"You're a homicidal psychopath. And you would be with or without my presence. Do _not _try and use me as your excuse."

"I'm not, uh, _using_ you as anything," the Joker countered, wishing that the Bats wasn't holding his wrists. Lovely as the pain being inflicted there was, his lower anatomy was severely lacking in attention. He wondered how badly he'd be beaten if he tried grinding up against the Batman. It might be worth it. "Think about it for a sec, wouldya? Which cities in the world have 'super villains'?"

He waited for an answer, and didn't receive one. Batsy tended to shut up when he realized an argument wasn't going to go in his favor. "Gotham. Metropolis. Central City. Need I go on, or are you sensing a pattern? They're all cities that have _heroes._ And the funny thing, Bats? The heroes didn't show up to combat the super villains."

Still no response. He shifted uncomfortably, really wishing that his hands were free. Annoying Batman was almost as arousing as getting hurt. He tried pulling free, knowing he'd fail. Batman tightened his grip as the Joker had expected and the pain made him moan, the sensation running like electricity through his body and to his groin.

Looking disgusted, Batsy loosened his hold, though keeping it tight enough to prevent the Joker from moving. Boring pain. _Damn it._ He tried to ignore his need for the moment and go on with the argument. "Oh, I know what you're thinking. Gotham City was corrupt and rotting and blah blah blah. And yeah, it was. But the _interesting _bit of the story is that these super villains didn't exist until after the Caped Crusader tied Falcone to a floodlight and made his presence known. There were criminals, yeah, and eccentric ones, but there weren't masked and costumed freaks."

"Explain Jonathan Crane, then." The Joker noted that his voice got more guttural the angrier he became. It was kind of funny.

He rolled his eyes. "Jonny doesn't count. His mask, as I'm sure he's told you, 'cause he's so fond of explaining it to anyone with ears, is _functional_. True, he made it to look like a scarecrow as, I dunno, some sort of twisted security blanket, but it's got a built in air filter, and Jonny happens to work with air-based toxins. You'll notice also, that he's only got a mask, not a full outfit like—" He gestured to himself, forgetting that he was in Rachel's dress for a moment.

Oh. Well then, all he'd done was draw the Bat's attention to the tent in the front of his gown. Which, though it detracted from the conversation, was still hilarious. He hadn't known it was possible for someone's eyes to widen that much. Even better than that was the way Batman averted his eyes seconds later, mouth twitching as though he wanted to shout at him but was desperately trying to ignore the elephant in the room.

Joker took pity on him and decided to continue speaking despite Batman's utter failure to contribute so far. "Unlike myself. Jonny pretty much fails at, uh, super villainy anyway. I mean, he chose to be a _scarecrow_. What's scary about those? Oh, right. Nothing. But back to my point. You'll also notice that Jonny was the _only _villain with that theatricality up to that point."

He took advantage of the way Batsy's hands had loosened in his shock, tried bringing his own hands down to his hips. The vigilante immediately pulled the cuffs back up, so they dug against the bandages. Well, that was just cruel, giving him false hope. Not to mention it was reopening the cuts, by the feel.

Not that it bothered him too badly. Bat-induced blood most definitely fell under the category of 'good hurt.'

"Now, look at the state of Gotham after you've been around for a while. You'll notice that, uh, there's a lot more than the Scarecrow running around these days, isn't there? Myself, Harley Quinn, The Riddler, the Mad Hatter, Poison Ivy, Two Face, and those are just the ones I spend time with in Arkham. There's _way _more where that came from." He paused to let the sheer magnitude of the 'masks' in Gotham sink in. And there were a hell of a lot. Maybe there was something in the city's water, a remnant from Crane's toxin, that had made everybody and their mother think costumes were a wonderful and completely original idea. "And with that in mind, think about how many of 'em were running around in their costumes wreaking havoc _before _you set your example with your cape and sexy pointy ears and all."

Batman's teeth were grinding. The Joker thought about mentioning how that could damage enamel, but thought better of it. He didn't want to start a fight before he'd had his say.

"I'm _pretty _sure you can do simple subtraction on your own," he went on, over the grinding. "But in case ya can't, it's one, Bats. All you had before that was Jonny-boy, and the League of Whatever that employed him, but all they wore were ninja masks, right?"

"How do you know anything about the League of Shadows?" Batman demanded. He sounded almost desperate, as though he'd been praying for any possible change of the subject. The Joker smirked, feeling contention at causing such stress. If only he didn't need to get off so badly, then things really would be perfect.

"From the Scarecrow, of course. It's all in his Arkham file. I'm sure you've read it, haven't you?" He tugged against Batsy's grip, again felt that fantastic pain that went straight from the nerve endings to between his legs. He sighed in way that he forced not to become a moan, as he was pretty sure if he moaned again, Bats would let go. "Point being, all of us showed up _after _you paved the way. After you made costumes, uh, fashionable, I guess. After ya _put the idea in our heads_."

"You're wrong."

"Really?" Now the Joker was sure he was trying to convince himself. "Then prove it."

"Even if I did put the idea of costumes into your head, I didn't introduce the criminal instinct."

"So you say."

He was shoved against the wall, rough cement pushing into him through the dress, arms shoved against his body as the Batman squeezed his wrists. It felt heavenly, and he was unable to hold back a moan this time. The Bat responded by shoving him again, as if that would shut him up. _Not helping, honey, _he thought, moaning again.

"Explain to me exactly how I made you criminals." It was a threat, not a requesting. The burn of desire the Joker had been feeling was becoming a throb. He swallowed, eyes fluttering open and closed, before elaborating.

"Well, ya didn't with me. Sorry Bats, but I'm way too stunning and original for you to take credit for." He flashed the man a winning smile that failed to win over anything. "And if ya wanna get _tech_nical, Harley was my invention, even if it was your beating me that pushed her over the edge. How_ever, _the origins of the other rogues aren't nearly as uh, cut and dry.

"_Par exemple,_ Jonny again. You poisoned him—"

"He was insane before that." The response was instantaneous. The Joker guessed that this was an argument Batman had had before, with Jonny. And likely with his own conscience.

He shrugged. "True. But he was also doing a decent job of holding himself together, wasn't he? Well enough that he could spend day after day with other psychiatrists and not have anyone realize how messed up he was. Well enough to know that he could only experiment on his patients and uh, people who got too nosy, as opposed to kidnapping random people as test subjects the way he does now. Yeah, the kid was fucked up before. But you made him break apart completely, and thanks to you, the damage is permanent."

"Narcissism is always permanent." His voice was hard enough to cut diamond. He really did not like being reminded of his moral lapses, did he?

"And how do ya know he was a full-out narcissist before you shoved recreational hallucinogens up his nose? Already had a psych profile on him, or something?" The Joker raised a brow. "'Cause I doubt that. And shifting gears, whether or not he was irreversibly mad is irrelevant. You had access to an antidote to that stuff—ya had to, because you and Harvey's little bunny—"

His head was slammed into the wall, sparks exploding across his vision. He sighed, hips jerking to meet a thrust he only wished was there. "Don't you _ever _speak about her again."

"Fine." He ran his tongue over his teeth, tasting blood. Of course, his gums bled a lot anyway, so he was used to it. "_Your _brain, along with She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's, isn't permanently fucked, so you had an antidote, and if you made an antidote, you probably figured out how the stuff worked and that it'd be permanently harmful without it. But ya didn't give Jonny-boy any of that stuff, didya? You just left him to be locked up and have his mind shatter even more than it already was. That's cold, Batsy. And coming from me, that says something."

"The League of Shadows was about to destroy the city. I had to warn the authorities and get started on mass producing the anti—"

"Excuses, excuses." He couldn't help but giggle. Bats was actually trying to defend his good name against the Joker, of all people. Hilarious. "Fine, let's get off the topic of Jonny for a minute. What about, I dunno, Poison Ivy?"

"What about her?"

"All Red wanted to do was kill the DA for building a prison over the last habitat for an endangered plant."

"That's _all _she wanted to do." He couldn't tell if that was supposed to be a question or not, Batsy's voice was so flat.

He shrugged a second time. "I'm not saying murder's acceptable. Though, in my book, as I'm sure you know, it totally is. But that would have been the _only _crime she'd committed, maybe. Gotham's not exactly home to a bunch of rare flowers it can kill off one by one, is it? And she'd managed to live her whole life around people, uh, burning fossil fuels and failing to recycle, so the murder might not have driven her to become the eco-terrorist that she is today. But then ya stopped her, and that pushed her over the edge. She wanted revenge on you, and that led to her series of crimes. Same with the Riddler and Tetch. They wanted one thing and one thing only, and your interference turned them into costumed freaks."

"If the mere act of being caught was enough to drive them mad, being apprehended by the police would have done the same thing."

"Assuming the police _could _catch them." He licked his lips, enjoying the taste of the lipstick mixed with blood. "They're not too good at catching us, are they? Anyway, it might not have the same effect. Think about it, Bats: People who break the law _expect _the police to catch them. We've all heard it since childhood; break the law and you'll be arrested. It's the status quo. Whereas being caught by a man in a bat costume? Tends to piss people off. Makes 'em want revenge. So yeah, I'm uh, standing by my theory that you're a big part of why Gotham's so fucked up. So how does _that_ make ya feel?"

Batman said nothing, only let go off him after a final shove against the wall. He stood, striding to the door. Stalking towards it, actually. The Joker couldn't see his face, but was sure he was glowering.

"Nothing more to say?" he asked, giggling. When the going got tough, it seemed the tough ran off to lick their wounds.

And then he was gone.

Still giggling to himself, the Joker began to move his hands from their place on his shoulders to his aching, very neglected cock. Then an idea struck him and, difficult as it was, he stopped. This room had security cameras, after all, and he likely hadn't given Bats nearly enough time to get to the security monitors. As much will power as it took, he needed to wait.

After all, if he was going to put on a show, he wanted an audience.

* * *

For no good reason whatsoever, Batman found himself punching in the security code to Crane's door.

He told himself it was to check on the man, who'd also slept through breakfast. See that he hadn't woken up while Bruce was away from the surveillance room and tried to asphyxiate himself with the chains or something. God knew he was panicked enough to try it. The previous night, when Batman had brought him dinner, he'd ranted for a good five minutes on how thanks to the flickering of the light bulb, he'd become convinced that the walls were shifting in position and trying to close in on him.

So he ought to be checked up on, because someone that delusional wasn't safe alone.

He refused to admit, even to himself, that he felt guilt where Jonathan Crane was concerned.

Crane was still asleep, sheets wrapped tightly around his thin body. He was shivering. Batman made his way to him, cautiously, in case the unconsciousness was an act, placed a hand on his shoulder. Crane flinched in his sleep, and even through the glove, he felt like ice.

He'd thought the shaking was due to fear of him, as it was usually. It hadn't occurred to Bruce that he was shivering from cold. The sense of guilt that he refused to acknowledge compounded. He was used to the temperature of the cave, but then, he was wearing armor, and actually had muscle tissue. Someone as thin as Crane would be freezing. Especially if he was hyper aware of the temperature.

He stood back up, removing his hand from his sleeping foe. He couldn't afford to feel pity for Jonathan Crane. Not in a situation as dangerous as this, with so much at stake. Still, he had to do something to lessen his self-disgust over the man's condition, both mentally and physically. If he didn't…well, a cloth could only stretch so far before it tore.

* * *

Jonathan woke up and realized that, for the first time in the past two days, he wasn't shivering. Confused, he stared up at the ceiling and walls around him. Same unpainted cement blocks, same damn flickering light bulb casting ghastly shadows on the walls.

Even more bewildered, he sat up, and realized the sheets he had clutched in his hands felt thicker, somehow. He glanced down, realized that a dark blue comforter had been placed on him in his sleep. Like the sheets, he found after a quick search, it lacked a tag.

He blushed, mortified by the fact that he'd shown weakness the Batman had picked up on, even if that weakness was something as mild as sensitivity to the temperature. Even worse, he couldn't help but feel comforted and reluctantly grateful for the blanket. It was strange that the Batman was trying to be nice, especially after the sex comment he'd let slip. Maybe he was being lulled into a false sense of security for some terrible scheme. He spotted the breakfast tray on the floor and ate slowly, trying to ignore this conflict of feelings.

However, he could not ignore the sounds from next door that began soon after, deep and sensual moans. It became especially impossible to block out when the Joker began screaming "Batman" at the top of his voice.

Maybe he hadn't been so off in the sex comment after all.

* * *

AN: The reference to Ivy's origin is from her start of darkness on _Batman: The Animated Series._

_Par exemple _is French for "for example."


	12. Irreverence

AN: So I got a hold of the _Batman Begins _novelization the other day and just got finished looking through it. If you're thinking of buying it, don't. It's all very flat and not too good. I bought it solely because I believed it was the novel with all the Jonathan Crane back story. Turns out that's the TDK novelization, which I've heard similar bad things about.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

He waited until about twenty minutes had passed, by his estimate, before allowing himself any sort of movement at all. After all, Batsy might well take the suit off between visits, and with all those plates of armor, that had to take time. And he wanted Bats to get back to his security monitors and see this live; it wouldn't have the same kick if seen in fast forward while the Batman reviewed his footage.

It hurt. He knew blood was going to start pooling up in his sensitive areas, if it hadn't already, and that was going to be miserable if he didn't do something about it. It didn't help that this type of pain turned him on, which just caused more blood flow, which in turn made things more miserable. It was like a revolving door. And as if the physical discomfort wasn't enough, psychologically the need for release was becoming unbearable. The more he thought about waiting so Bats would see it, the more he thought about Bats, and the more he wanted it. He had to force himself to wait it out, hands clenched so tightly at the knees that his knuckles turned white as his greasepaint.

And to think his doctors had said he had impulse control issues.

He waited until he couldn't stand it anymore, when he was quite literally about five seconds from fucking the mattress involuntarily, and then loosened his grip on his hands, straightening his legs out. Underneath him, the chains pulled and shifted, and for once the way they scratched against him through the fabric of the dress felt heavenly. Having lost their death grip, his hands wanted more than ever to move to his erection, but he made himself stay put, moaning with the effort it took. There was no point in doing this if he couldn't make it entertaining, and ending the whole thing in five seconds was hardly a performance worth watching.

He pressed down on the fabric immediately under his fingertips, just below the knee, and pulled up, slightly. Down by his ankles, the skirt slid up, a fraction of an inch. Still burning with need but somewhat satisfied by the knowledge that grafication would be forthcoming, he smiled and looked up.

Where oh where would Batsy have put the security cameras? Surely there was more than one…his best bet was to face either of the corners on the wall opposite him, he guessed. Now, which side? After a moment's consideration, he chose the right. That was the side closest the door, and since Batman was somewhere out there, it would almost be like facing him. Besides, he was already facing partly in that direction. He shifted that was so he was directly facing the corner, straightened the skirt, smirked. He began raising the dress again, inch by agonizing inch.

He refused to let his frustration show. Even the occasional, unavoidable twitch of his hips was barely noticeable, unless one was looking for it. Which Bats probably was. Then again, knowing what a clueless Boy Scout Batman was, maybe he wouldn't get what was going on. He could just imagine the man sitting there, puzzling over just what the hell the Joker was up to, and giggled at the thought. _He's probably thinking I've got a hidden weapon somewhere or something._

Which he technically did, psychologically. Nothing fucked with a guy's mind quite like watching his nemesis fuck himself. Hell, it didn't even have to be the nemesis. Witnessing this sort of thing unexpectedly was enough to throw just about anybody off balance. Which was why he was doing this to begin with, he supposed. He might be a perverted freak, but he wasn't an exhibitionist unless there was something to be gained from it. Usually.

Gradually, the skirt was hiked over the knees, up the thighs, and over the hips, coming to stop at the waist. He didn't take his eyes from the camera, unblinking, a smile on his face. It was a genuine smile, for once, lacking in malice or mockery, and he knew that would make the little show he was putting on all the more fucked up for the one on the receiving end. Keeping eye contact with where he supposed the camera would be, he slid his hands down again, agonizingly slow, from the fabric bunched around his midsection toward his hips.

His smile widened when his fingertips brushed against the elastic waistband of the boyshorts. Usually he wore his boxers under skirts when he cross-dressed, but the slits he'd cut into this gown would have let his undergarments show through if he'd tried that. Besides, these made the illusion of femininity more realistic—or would have, were they not currently stretching over his obviously male erection—and the ensemble that much more disturbing. And he enjoyed mixing things up a bit.

For the first time since smiling up at the camera, his eyes fluttered shut for a moment as he pushed the fabric down past his hips, moaning deeply as it brushed over his body in the most wonderful way. He pushed it to about his knees before realizing that things to the chains around his ankles, he couldn't take the shorts all the way off. Well, damn it. These were supposed to be his makeshift towel, and he wasn't about to wear them after that. He'd have to rip them off, then. The realization made him sigh, the first sigh since he'd started this that wasn't made in pleasure or longing. He liked these; how lucky had it been for him to run across boyshorts decorated in smiley faces?

Well, it was for the greater good. He smiled again, leaning down to rip the fabric off his legs. He hoped Batsy appreciated just how hard it was to rip through elastic when he wasn't looking at what he was doing. Because if Bats couldn't appreciate that, the Joker didn't think this relationship was going to work.

Then the shredded remains of his shorts came loose, and he straightened, smiled, brought a hand between his legs and immediately lost the ability to think at all.

* * *

Bruce could tell something was wrong the moment he entered the surveillance room. Not from the monitors—they were grouped flat along one wall and from the doorway, he wasn't yet in a position that made their footage clear. No, it was Alfred's expression.

His butler tended to be fairly stoic. But just because his facial expressions were minimal, it didn't mean they weren't expressive. And after living with Alfred for the majority of his life, Bruce could easily read those expressions. Even in profile, as Alfred was now, Bruce could clearly see that the look on his face was something akin to 'there is no God.'

"Alfred?"

The butler turned to face him, expression immediately shifting from understated shock to what looked like a disgusted, if resigned, annoyance. "Master Wayne, do you recall when you said the cells didn't need microphones in addition to the security cameras?"

"Yes?" He wasn't sure if he wanted to know where this was going.

"You were absolutely right." He stood, taking the mug from the console with him. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I believe my appetite would fare better if I took my tea in another room."

"What's going on?" he asked, apprehensive, as Alfred walked past him. He knew he should already be at the console, checking out just what horrible thing his captives were up to. Something terrible enough to disturb Alfred must be truly evil. Nothing fazed the man. Not coming home to find his mansion on fire, not any of the Joker's schemes, nothing. Which made him just nervous enough to linger in the doorway instead of going to see what was happening.

"The Joker's decided to get your attention in the most juvenile way he could think of, it would seem." He paused in the hallway, turned back. "I neglected to note his choice of attire when I first realized he was here, but now that he's brought it to my attention, I must say that Ms. Dawes pulled off that look far better, sir."

Bruce felt a smile twitch over his face at that, but just barely. The Joker was doing something mad or revolting with the dress? What could he possibly do that was more offensive than dressing up like Rachel in the first place?

He steeled himself for whatever ghastly image could be on those monitors, took a breath, and made his way over to the monitors.

For a few seconds, he only stared at the screens in confusion. He didn't bother to check the ones corresponding to the cameras in Crane's cell, as Alfred had only mentioned the Joker in his cryptic warning. It took his mind a moment to process what he was seeing. At first he thought the Joker was having some sort of fit on the mattress, but he was staying too upright to be having any form of a seizure, by Bruce's estimate.

It only took a second to realize that this wasn't a seizure, however. He felt winded, upon the reality of what he was seeing snapping to mind. The Joker was—but he couldn't be—but he was. It was sickening, twisted, and exactly what should have expected from the clown, but he'd never expected _this_. Even for the Joker, this was low.

He was unable to take his eyes from the screens. His whole body seemed to have frozen, as if too taken aback by this audacity to react. Despite the grainy quality of the camera footage, the picture was clear. Too clear. There were so many details burning into his mind, details he'd never be able to unsee.

And the Joker knew it. This wasn't a man in confinement trying to have a private moment that, unbeknownst to him, was caught on tape. No, he could see that the Joker's eyes, unblinking despite the violent movements of the rest of his body, were focused on the camera. His body, twisting around, hips thrusting against his hand, was angled in a direction he seemed to have surmised he'd be filmed from. Everything about this was intentional, calculated, designed to get a rise.

And it was working.

Bruce knew he should follow Alfred's lead, and not let this do anything more but disgust him. Keep anger out of it. If anything, he should be mildly amused that the psychotic who considered himself Batman's greatest nemesis was reduced to degrading himself in this way for attention. But just because he knew these things, it didn't make them happen. He might have been able to ignore it, were it not for that damned dress.

The Joker's free hand was running over it, twisting the fabric of the skirt and brushing over the shoulders. He was flaunting it, taunting Batman with it. Using it as a reminder that he'd destroyed the woman Bruce had cared most about and now had the gall to disrespect her memory, because he didn't fear any retaliation to come. The smirk on his face between moans and shouts served only to reinforce what he already knew. _You've got nothing to control me with, _the Joker was saying. _I killed your woman and now I've got the balls to jerk off in her dress, and there's not a damn thing you can threaten me with, because I know you won't kill me._

Never before, aside from learning in the interrogation room that Rachel had been taken hostage, had he been this tempted to break that rule. Not that it would make a difference, probably. The sick bastard would enjoy being killed, if it meant forcing Batman to go against his code. There was no way to win against, him, not really. There was only the sadistic choice, and the less sadistic choice. And with the Joker, the difference between the two was negligible.

Still, it would almost be worth it, if it meant shutting the damn clown up for good. Standing over him and seeing fear in his eyes for once, the fear he was so good at inducing in everyone else but never seemed touched by himself. Except for that night when the ferries failed to destroy each other. There had been a spark of something behind the clown paint, as the Joker had realized it was past midnight. Something other than madness and sadism. Bruce wasn't sure if that had been fear, but at the very least it had been close. What he wouldn't give to be able to go back to that moment, exploit it. Leave the Joker torn open and just as helpless and horrified as one of his victims. If only.

But that in itself was a slippery slope. 'Killing is wrong, but destroying people's psyches is just fine' did not make for a logical moral code. No matter how much better it would make him feel. Justice was about harmony, not self gratification.

He told himself to shove it off, ignore it. So the Joker wanted to soil the only clothes he had, and lie in his own filth? Let him. Disgusting, yes, but it was the Joker who would suffer as a result of it, not him. And it would serve him right for acting that way to begin with. Regaining control of his body, he stood, fully prepared to look away and follow Alfred's example. Get out of the room and don't look back. Don't give into the Joker and be affected, like he wants.

And then he realized the words the Joker was mouthing and froze again, this time with more anger than shock. _He's so unbelievably dead._

* * *

"_Fuck me, Bats_!"

Jonathan tried pulling the sheets over his head, shut his eyes. It didn't take. Even with the thick comforter and the wall between them, the Joker's voice was still audible. If anything, it was louder now. Well, the loss of one sense usually resulted in a sharpening of the others, so of course sitting in the dark would heighten his sense of hearing. It didn't help that he was already hyper aware to begin with.

"Ah! Batman! _Fuck_!"

_Thank you so very, very much, Arkham_. He wondered if it would be worth making himself vomit and intentionally choking on it, if it meant he didn't have to listen to this anymore. _Try the new medicine, Joan said. It'll be good for you. It'll help you focus. Well, yes, focus on clown sex that I can't block out. Oh, this is helping my mental wellbeing. And by helping I mean cutting it up into a jigsaw and then throwing pieces away so I can't reattach them and then shredding some of the pieces and throwing others in water so even if I can find them again, they won't fit._

Great. Now even his mind had become unable to shut up. Lovely. Just lovely. The clown sex really was breaking his will to live.

"_Ooh!_"

"I hate my life," he muttered, pulling the sheets off his head and wincing against the light. It just figured. The one thing that he wasn't afraid of—being locked in a closet multiple times as a child tended to desensitize one to a fear of the dark—and the light never went off. The damn flickering was worse than the dark could ever be, even total darkness.

_Distract yourself, _Scarecrow suggested, as the Joker let out a particularly high shriek that made his ears throb. Good idea, but with what? That was the first time Scarecrow had spoken since this mess had started, aside from a quick conversation in which both of them agreed that the Joker was simply being irreverent, and that the Batman was not really fucking him. He could sense that Scarecrow wasn't going to talk again. He was blocking himself off from this nonsense, as Jonathan so desperately wished he could do.

"_Batman_!"

_Oh, for Christ's sake. _Scarecrow was right. If he didn't find some way to block this out, he was going to start envisioning the Batman and the Joker going at it like rabbits, and then he'd have to gouge his eyes out to preserve what would be left of his sanity. He wondered if the Joker still dyed his pubic hair green, and then shuddered at realizing he was thinking about it at all, and hurriedly latched onto the first distraction that popped into his mind: conjugations.

_Terreō, terrēre, terruī, territum. Terreō, terrēs, terret, terrēmus, terrētis, terrent._ It was working, somewhat. He could still hear the Joker screaming, but not nearly as loudly. Thank God._ Terrēbam, terrēbas, terrēbat, terrēbamus, terrēbatis, terrēbant. Terrēbō, terrēbis, terrēbit, terrēbimus, terrēbitis, terrēbunt. _He went on in that vein for what seemed like hours, almost able to fully block the Joker out.

He could not, however, block out the sudden, unexpected noise of the Joker's cell door slamming open and an indistinct shout that was clearly the Batman's.

* * *

AN: _Terrēre_ is Latin for "to frighten, to terrify."

I don't know where I get these ideas.


	13. Pushing

AN: I'm not sure if I'll be updating tomorrow, as I'm going to see the Body Worlds exhibit (preserved corpses and organs) in a town about forty-five minutes away from my own, and then to see _Watchmen _again. So yeah.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Batman flung the door open at the exact moment the Joker climaxed, which rather spoiled any dramatic or fearful entrance the Caped Crusader might have planned. Had he been capable of thinking at that point, Joker might have mused on the Bat's impeccable timing. As it was, he wouldn't regain the ability to think for another moment or so, and instead only stared at Bats, panting, still moaning occasionally. He vaguely, almost subconsciously recognized that Batsy had shouted something upon coming in, but he couldn't remember what and his mind was refusing to retrieve that information at the present.

"_Joker_."

He knew that tone meant something, and that something probably required a response, but beyond that, the neurons in his head were refusing to spark. "Nngh," he offered, and Bats had better appreciate the effort which that took.

"Joker!"

"Ngh?" He was starting to realize that Batman sounded rather pissed off. What? It wasn't the Joker's fault if his performance had gotten him all hot and bothered. There was no reason to take out all his pent up sexual energy on the Joker. Unless he wanted to do that literally, in which case the clown was all up for it. Even now, though, when his mind was failing to fire on all cylinders, he knew that was unlikely. Now if only he could remember _why_.

"I'm talking to you, you sick bastard."

Oh. The whole hating him, I have morals thing. How boring. His brain appeared to be working again, and he almost wished it weren't. Post-orgasm bliss was a hell of a lot more entertaining than reality, most of the time. Especially when the bliss lead you to believe you just might have a chance with the Batman, and reality was pointing out that you'd only succeeded in pissing him off more than ever as you sat in a puddle of your own ejaculate. Removing his hand from himself, he took the torn shorts and began to wipe himself off.

He licked his lips, slowly before he spoke. Briefly he wondered what a mess his makeup must be after that display, how much he'd sweated off. Having his face off in front of the Batman didn't feel right, somehow. It would be like Batsy taking off his mask. "_Baaaats,_" he drew the word out, smirking. "_So _nice to see you. Little late though, if you were coming down here to lend a _hand_. I've kinda, uh, finished." He gestured to himself with the now sodden fabric, watched as Batman's eyes drifted down in spite of himself, and widened as he quickly averted them. _Yeah, I dye my hair green. Bet your cameras didn't show that lovely fact, did they?_

Ooh, Batsy looked absolutely _furious. _The Joker had the feeling that he was in for it big time. And that it would be wonderful. This day could not get any better. First he'd gotten under Batman's skin, then he'd gotten off, and now he was about to get the shit beat out of him. It was like foreplay, only afterwards. Was there a word for that? He didn't think it was afterplay; that seemed a bit too obvious. Then again, things related to carnal acts usually were.

Bats was still standing in front of the door, all scowling and armor and shaking with rage. He was carrying something under one arm, but whatever it was, it didn't appear to be a weapon, so Joker let it slip his notice for the moment. He was still in the refractory period, after all. He couldn't focus on anything and everything. Certain things were more important than others, for the time being.

Such as the fact that he was about to get the beating of his life, if he was lucky. That information was almost all consuming.

And if he wanted that beating to happen, it occurred to him that he shouldn't just sit there waiting. If he didn't make himself more than just a spectator, the Batman might calm down just enough to remember there was no use in beating the Joker senseless. Unlikely, but the man did have strong convictions. Or he could realize that beating the Joker would be giving him exactly what he wanted. He'd have to push him even further, then.

First, though, he pulled the gown back down so he was covered up. Letting the Bat see his goods when he was as worked up as this might just give him a heart attack, and nothing would spoil his good mood quite like his lover falling over dead before he could beat the shit out of him.

"May I ask," he began, "just what it is that bothers you so much about sexual desire? Or, uh, what bothers you about my acting on _mine_? I'd guess you were homophobic, but I think I remember some chick giving an interview on the news once, about how ya couldn't be all bad because you saved her and her girlfriend from a hate crime or something. Now, she could have been talking about the _other _guy who runs around Gotham in a bat costume, but I'm _pret_ty sure it was you. So I think it's just me. Now, the question is, does it piss you off because I'm not your type, or 'cause you've got a thing for me, and you don't like being _cock teased _without getting—"

He just had time to register that Batsy's eye had begun twitching before the man threw whatever it was he was carrying at the Joker. He didn't flinch, and didn't need to. It turned out to be clothes, jeans and a shirt, and having little weight, they fell to the floor a good foot away from him with a less than intimidating force.

"Change."

"Mmmm, are those _your _clothes?" He tilted his head, giggled. "I gotta say, Batsy, much as I appreciate your attempts to get closer—and I do, I really do—I don't think those are going to fit me. At least, not the pants. They'd be, uh, falling off and all, and since seeing me pantless is what pushed ya over the edge in the first place, I'm not sure this is the best of ideas. Besides, I thought couples didn't walk around in each other's clothes until _after _the sexing—"

"Take the dress off." Each word could almost be its own sentence, as tensely as he said it. It must be taking everything he had not to be wrapping his hands around the Joker's throat. "Now."

He laughed out loud at that one. _Does Bats honestly not realize how easy he's making this? _"Batsy baby, much as I love you, I'm not sure we've gotten close enough for me to strip tease at the drop of a—"

"_Now_."

"Why don'tcha take it off me?" he suggested, licking his lips again. He drew one hand down across the skirt, as he had not so long ago before he'd started lifting it. Ooh, and Batsy looked livid. "I mean, ya want it off that bad, come over here and take it."

"_Joker_—"

He went on bitching past the name, but the Joker didn't hear any of it. It wasn't important, not a word of it. Aside from his name, which always was. All it meant was that once again, Batman had put aside one of his taunts and refrained from beating his brains out. _Stupid Boy Scout. _The Joker needed to be hit, in the same way he'd needed relief before, but with only the mental discomfort this time. It wouldn't be right, for Bats to get this pissed off and not beat the shit out of him.

"Oy, Bats. I take it you don't like this dress on me?" he asked, when he got sick of pretending to listen.

The glare he got in response was a resounding yes.

"Right. Now, is that because you think I'm mocking the memory of your beloved princ—"

"Do _not _talk about her." He roared it more than said it, really. He must be stripping his vocal cords, talking that way. Joker imagined Batman trying to shriek at him when he'd lost his voice, his usual growls coming out as hoarse squeaks, and started to giggle so hard he shook.

"Sorry," he managed, after about five minutes, though he wasn't at all. Still, Bats looked all put out, and he felt the need to say _something. _"You sound just like Harvey, ya know that?"

He was growled at in response.

"You really _suck _at communicating, Batsy. Anyway, as I was saying, is it 'cause I remind you of her, or 'cause I pull it off better?"

There was a pause, so quiet that the Joker could have sworn he heard Jonny hyperventilating through the wall. Not that he knew if Jonny was hyperventilating or not, but honestly, what else did the man do with his life?

Then the Batman broke the silence. He seemed to be too angry to growl at the moment, the words in his standard—and lovely—deep rasp. "You have five seconds to start changing out of that dress, or you will regret it."

"Fine," he said huffily, as if in annoyance. Truth be told, he couldn't be more amused. He actually had to bite his tongue for a few seconds to keep from laughing aloud and getting bitch slapped. Not that he minded being hit—that was, after all, what he was going for—but he wanted to make at least one last point before the beating started. He reached out, took the pants in hand. "But tell me, Bats, 'cause I'm curious. How, pray tell, am I to get _these _on my body," here he held up the jeans, "with _these _in the way?" He raised his ankles, rattling the chains there.

Behind his mask, Batsy's face did that thing faces did when their owners realized they'd just said or done something extraordinarily dumb.

"Thought so." He lay the jeans down, giggled again. "Now answer me this, did you forget I was chained up out of stupidity, or because subconsciously, this turns you on?"

He'd crossed the line and they both knew it. But, never having been one to settle for achieving something, he had to overachieve it.

"And one more question: if it does turn ya on, is that 'cause you wanna pretend I'm her, or 'cause I'm prettier than she could ever be—"

And the Batman's fist connected with his face, and the pain was too glorious for him to finish the question.

* * *

There were definitely two people in the other cell now, and while there were still moaning sounds—occasionally interrupted by what sounded, bizarrely enough, like singing—Jonathan highly doubted that either of them was getting off. Well, maybe the Joker, but as being beaten got him in the mood just as much as foreplay, Jonathan still doubted anything sexual was going on over there.

No, it was definitely a fight. He couldn't make out exact words, as the Joker wasn't yelling as loudly as he'd been before, and the wall as a filter rendered Batman's growls unintelligible, but what he could hear of the Batman's tone made that clear enough.

He'd stopped conjugating Latin in his head. He didn't quite have his ear pressed to the wall, but it was close. He was listening out of a strange combination of curiosity and fear. It had occurred to him, a few minutes after the Batman had interrupted the Joker's orgasmic cries, that the Joker was the only thing keeping him here. He couldn't decide if that meant he wanted the Joker to win or not, however. He had no idea what the Joker's motive in bringing them here was, or why he'd insisted that Jonathan come along. But he knew the Joker.

They may have become friends again—or whatever passed as 'friends' for the Joker, but that didn't mean a thing. The Joker could have brought him along either for a purpose or on a whim, but even if it was a whim, he knew the Joker would still find a use for him. For all he knew he could be bait, somehow exploited by the clown whenever he got sick of being locked up. It was entirely possible the Joker might just stab him in the gut one night and leave him bleeding to death so the Batman would have to save him instead of tracking the Joker down. Or worse.

Still, even for all the clown had put him through, at this moment, the Batman scared Jonathan more. He was the loose cannon here, not the Joker. The Joker, at least, he could trust to act sporadically. He'd never be on solid ground with him, and he knew that. But the Batman…Jonathan had no idea what went on inside his head. For all the Batman's talk of wanting to help the villains—which he believed not at all—and all the taunts he'd made about the Bat being nothing more than some spoiled rich punk, he was still terrified of him. He knew the Joker's motive was chaos. He had no idea what prompted a grown man to dress as a bat. He didn't even think of the Batman as a man, really. He was a monster, a creature that had forced Jonathan to relive his worst nightmares and permanently shattered his mind. He had no idea where he stood with the Batman.

Which would put him on the Joker's side, then. At least if the Joker stabbed him in the middle of the night, he'd have seen it coming. And at least he could feel something beyond fear and hatred for the Joker, which was all he felt for the Batman. That, and a strange confusion at times when he was being 'nice.' He wondered if he should go over and help his friend. He knew the security code, or at least he was fairly sure he did. The number buttons the Batman pressed to come in or out all had a slightly different tone, and quickly as the Batman punched them in, someone as hyperaware as Jonathan could still easily distinguish the tones.

But no, getting out of the chains would really hurt, and then he'd be in no position to assist in a fight. Besides, he was terrified at the thought, and the Joker sounded as if he was having the time of his life, anyway. If he came over now, he was likely to get his head slammed against the floor or something for his troubles.

Better to wait it out. Besides, Scarecrow was morbidly curious to see who would win.

* * *

Batman's stamina quite honestly amazed the Joker—he'd been beating him for about ten minutes now and showed no signs of stopping. To be fair, he had seemed ready to throw in the towel around the five minute mark, but the Joker hadn't been. He'd quickly remedied things by starting to sing 'So This Is Love,' which had given Bats plenty of new incentive to keep beating his face in, it would seem.

A gloved fist connected with his ribs, making an absolutely gorgeous thwacking sound only outshined by the beautiful agony it sent through the Joker. He howled with laughter, body convulsing so hard with it that he couldn't still up, and found himself collapsed against Bats. The vigilante stiffened, disgusted, the Joker could tell, by his sudden intake of breath, and shoved the Joker away. He hit the wall hard, waited to be hit again.

He wasn't.

He opened his eyes, disappointed. What sort of a fight was this? He was only bleeding from the nose and mouth, and his head hadn't been slammed against the walls or floor nearly enough. It couldn't be over. But based on the way Batsy seemed to be forcing himself to breath normally, it seemed it was. _Damn it. Way to ruin the moment, Bats._

"I'm going to unlock the chains," the Bat said, after a few seconds. He was struggling to keep his voice under control, but the Joker could hear a shake. Whether it was from anger or remorse, he wasn't sure. Probably both. Well, he'd caused enough anger for now. Better to exploit the latter.

"Why'd ya stop, Bats? It was just getting good."

"I'm going to undo the chains on your ankles," he said, ignoring him. How boring. "And then you're going to put the pants on."

"Weren't you having fun? You looked like you were having _so _much fun. Don'tcha enjoy beating the shit out of me? I can scream louder for ya, if you want."

"And then, I'm putting those cuffs back on, and taking off the ones on your wrists." His teeth were clenched now. A ha, so he didn't like being the monster. "And then you're putting on the shirt, and the cuffs go back on after that. And you're going to do it without causing any trouble."

"You can hit me as hard as you want, Batsy. I like it, it really doesn't bother me. And I _know _you like it too."

"Got it?" His fists had clenched again. Joker looked at the greasepaint streaking the gloves from the punches to his face and giggled.

"Got some of my makeup there," he said, pointing, off Batman's questioning glance. "You oughta smear it on your face instead. It'd suit you."

Oh, and he was _still _trying to control himself, despite the fact that he was shaking with either fury or regret, now. How very boring. And pathetic. Joker felt sorry for him, really.

"_Express _yourself, Bats," he urged, leaning forward, ignoring the way blood dripped on his dress. "Don't fill yourself up with anger or whatever the hell's eating ya. It'll only lead to losing control when you need it and fucking things up. Like ya did when you let Rachel di—"

His head slammed against the wall one last, beautiful time, the rough cement scraping into his face, tearing skin, drawing blood. It felt warm and comforting on his face. Almost like a hug. And it stung just gloriously.

"See? Like I said, express yourself." He smiled, blood dripping down into his eyes. "I mean, this thing's gonna get paint in it, and probably go septic, but hey. You feel better about yourself now, don'tcha?"

The Batman didn't answer, just stared at him with what was surely remorse. Not remorse at having hurt the Joker, of that he was certain, but remorse for the loss of control. "I can disinfect it." He sounded as if the idea pained him, as if he'd like nothing more to let the Joker rot from infection. He reached a hand out, knuckles still stained with red, white, and black, as if to examine the wound, to wipe away the paint, to—

_No._

"Don't touch my face!" He was hardly aware that he'd said it, hardly aware that as he spoke he scrambled backwards, as far away from the Batman as the chains would allow him to go. He wasn't aware of much of anything, except it was imperative that he did not let Batman wipe away the paint. It didn't bother him, he knew, if Jonny or Harley, or those at Arkham saw him without it, but not Bats. Bats…he just _couldn't._

It was…wrong, somehow. That was the only word for it. Letting Bats wipe off the makeup would be like letting someone _molest _him. It was the only apt comparison and he wasn't sure if even he fully understood it. No, he knew he didn't fully understand it. All he knew was that it felt wrong. Like if it happened, he'd have lost something. And he knew that it couldn't happen. He wouldn't let it.

For a moment, that conviction was all he could focus on, the idea running through his head like a mantra. During that moment, the rest of the world seemed to shift in and out of focus, becoming white noise like his past. Then the moment was over, suddenly, and the cell snapped back into focus. As did Bats, who was staring at him, expression unreadable, and he realized he'd just revealed this bizarre new weakness to his arch-nemesis.

_Oh shit._

* * *

AN: 'So This Is Love' is a song from _Cinderella._


	14. More Than Just a Man

AN: So Body Worlds was absolutely fascinating, though I'll admit parts made me cringe. Basically any time I stopped being fascinated by the organs/veins/muscles and such, and remembered "Hey, that's a person." And especially the slices of the head and brain that ended with a sliced off face, nose and lips removed. That made me shudder. But the circulatory systems were, at the risk of being morbid, absolutely beautiful. How they pulled out all the little capillaries without breaking them, I'll never know.

Sorry about the delay, I was completely exhausted last night and my brain just would not function.

I got the idea of "Batshit" as a nickname for Batman came from the wonderful sapzberry and her fic _Randomosity._

Abigail is the Joker's tailor. She featured in my fic _Act Like We Are Fools._

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

His first thought was that he'd never seen the Joker look this way.

His second thought was to correct himself. He had seen the Joker look this way, or similarly, once before. The night when he stopped the Joker from destroying the ferries, in those few seconds between the man realizing it was past midnight and when he pulled out the detonator. This was the fear he'd been so longing to induce in the Joker. He hadn't recognized it at first, he supposed, because it was so rare and alien an expression for the clown to have. It seemed incongruous, the juxtaposition of the tightly set mouth against the lipstick shaping a permanent, if now smeared, grin. His entire position, huddled back as far as the chains would allow, pressed against the wall so tightly it was as if he was trying to move through it, was foreign for the Joker. Batman had only seen him look this way one other time, and then it was far less potent.

And then it was over, as abruptly as it had been the last time. The Joker straightened up, brushing tangled hair from his face, hair matted from both neglect and the blood still dripping from the abrasion on his face. There was blood over the black and white paint as well, as if the Joker had gone overboard with his lipstick. "I mean, _really, _Bats." There was no shake to his voice, confident and perverse as always, managing to make every word that passed through his lips come out mangled. Still perfectly understandable, but twisted somehow. As if he'd corrupted the language just by speaking it. "You can't just go touching people without, uh, their permission. They might question your _intent._"

_No, _Batman realized, watching the Joker without comment. _This isn't like the last time. _The sudden panic had halted as abruptly as before, yes, but it had yet to truly end. His words might have come out smooth and steady, but his hands were still tightly clenched and twisting the skirt between them hard enough to wrinkle the surrounding fabric. He hadn't made eye contact until halfway through the first sentence, instead staring down at the bloodied bed sheets, and under the blood and paint his face was twitching occasionally, tongue darting out to caress the scarring more than ever. If Batman had been right about touching the scars to feel secure, it didn't seem to be working.

"Hey, Batshit." The Joker shifted, twisting the fabric of his dress harder than ever. Batman guessed that his lack of a response had tipped the clown off that his attempt at a cover up was failing. And if there was one thing the Joker did not like, it seemed to be having things out of his control. The ferries served once more as a perfect example. "It's also _quite _unbecoming to ignore a lady when she's talking to you. I'm starting to think you've had no, uh, exposure to _polite _society."

"You're afraid of having your makeup taken off." It wasn't a question. He supposed the fear could come from the threat of physical contact as opposed to the risk of losing the paint, but that didn't fit. The Joker enjoyed contact, and not just being beaten. Batman was reminded of the time the clown had threatened to destroy Arkham if Batman didn't hold his hand. And he highly doubted someone as impulsive as the Joker would allow Harleen Quinzel or Jonathan Crane to hang off him the way they did, if he didn't enjoy or at least tolerate the contact.

Not that being afraid of having the makeup off made much more sense. True, his Arkham files said he had a tendency to scream bloody murder and fight like a caged animal each time he was brought in and had the paint washed off, but those same files also noted that once it was gone, he always seemed amused at the difficulty he'd caused. And he didn't scream every time. Batman, along with the Joker's many different psychiatrists, had assumed the Joker behaved that way only to cause trouble.

He had no idea what would turn an experience the Joker usually found entertaining into something frightening. It was hard enough to follow the man's logic, if it could be called that, let alone try to sort out whatever passed for his emotions. All he knew was that it seemed more likely for the Joker to fear the removal of his paint than being touched. And the change in the Joker's expression when he'd spoken confirmed it. His face didn't fall, but there was the slightest twitch in the look of controlled scorn.

The Joker laughed. "Don't be brainless, Batsy. That's the Scarecrow's job." He tilted his head to the door connecting the cells, straightened back up. "I'll admit that this paint does a _lovely _job of accentuating my, uh, radiance, but I'm gorgeous with or without it."

"You just ran off the mattress and pushed yourself into a wall."

The Joker glared at him. Batman hadn't known it was possibly for brown eyes to look that acidic. "I just so happen to be a _stun_ningly beautiful person, Bats. My cheekbones look like they've been sprinkled with _God_ _dust._ And that's not to mention my _delicate _body and shining thick hair. _Excuse _me if I'm not all that jazzed by the idea of some tall, dark, and, uh, faceless stranger laying his hands on me."

The Joker was trying, he knew, to make him uncomfortable enough to change the subject. It wasn't going to work. "You enjoyed being hit."

"Oh, real nice, Bats. Gonna turn this back around on me?" His voice had picked up speed. Not much; it wouldn't have been noticeable unless one was looking for signs of tension, which Batman was. So it was the idea of losing his makeup that had made him panic. Otherwise this conversation wouldn't be agitating him. "'The bitch was asking for it,' is that it? I was enjoying myself then, so it's all right to start groping me? Is that how ya did things with your woman, 'cause no wonder she ditched you for Har—"

He stood. The Joker was still speaking, but he forced himself to block it out. The clown wanted to provoke Batman into beating him again, beating him so badly that he'd be disgusted with himself and leave the cell. Wallow in guilt for a few days, hopefully forgetting about this fear of the Joker's. Well, it wasn't going to happen; the clown had finally given him a weakness, a way to control him that didn't involve beating him into submission.

Not that beating him usually accomplished much anyway.

Batman noted how the Joker's eyes had gone wide after he'd stood, though he kept rambling on. Something about Rachel. He forced himself to zone the words out, forced himself to keep his temper. The Joker could make as many insinuations as he wanted to about their relationship, it wouldn't change the fact that he'd betrayed a weakness of his own. Stepping over chains, he closed the space between them, the Joke r staring up at him with a mixture of fear that he was trying unsuccessfully to hide, and what looked like hope. Hope that he'd be hit, probably. Or that Batman wouldn't exploit this.

He felt himself smirk. It might be wrong to enjoy the Joker's fear, but it felt wonderful. As if the tables had finally turned at the Joker was feeling the way everyone else in Gotham felt when he terrorized them. Not that the fear of something as simple as losing his makeup could possibly make him feel the sheer terror the people of the ferries had gone through. But it was a start.

"—don't know what made her so great anyway. I mean she was, uh, beautiful, but _severely _lacking in the—"

"Enough."

The Joker fell silent. Batman reflected that he'd never seen him do that before, actually obey an order with some smug comment or contrary action. As it was, all he did was roll his eyes. Bruce could get used to this.

He knelt down, on his guard in case the Joker tried to attack him. Instead, the clown instantly tried pulling away, though the chains left him with nowhere to go. "Don't touch me."

"You're bleeding."

"I like blood. It's fun and exciting."

"There's cement in the cut." And there were, tiny bits that must have come off from the force of the Joker striking the wall. Very tiny, barely more than specks, but visible.

"_Good. _I hope it heals under my skin. Makes for an interesting texture."

Batman wondered what the odds were of the wound becoming infected. Truth be told, he didn't care. He had no sympathy where the Joker was concerned, and the only thing keeping him from giving the man the beating he so desperately wanted, after what he'd said about Rachel, was curiosity about just how much power over the Joker this fear gave him.

The Joker seemed to sense this, tried pulling away again. Every so often his gaze would leave Batman, flitting around the room as if searching for an escape before quickly returning. As if Batman could take his makeup off in the few seconds he was looking away. "Keep your hands off me, Bats."

"You think you're in a position to be making threats?"

"I will make you regret it." His voice was almost the distorted growl he'd used to shout at Brian Douglas in the hostage video. A slight shake, however, kept it from the full effect. The idea of losing the paint seemed to absolutely terrify him.

"How, exactly?" Now that the initial moment of amusement and triumph had passed, he was starting to feel slightly uneasy at this. Up until this point, he hadn't know the Joker to have any weaknesses, besides his ego and desire for Batman's attention. Having something that could be exploited, something he could use to make the Joker do as he said, was without a doubt a good thing. Intellectually he knew that, but there was something about seeing the Joker panic in this way that put him off balance. It wasn't sympathy; he had no sympathy where the Joker was concerned. Not after all the man had done, and enjoyed doing.

"Look, I'll change out of the dress. All right? But keep your fucking hands off me, or chains or not, I'll find a way to make you wish you had." His voice was still growling, deep and distorted enough to rival Batman's own. But even with the disturbing and steady tone, this was begging, or close to it. He'd made the Joker frightened enough to beg, and he had no idea how to feel about that.

"You terrorized my city. You killed—" he kept himself from saying Rachel, know that if he put the idea back in the Joker's head, he'd start in again. And now that Batman wasn't as distracted by the Joker's fear, it could send him over the edge. "You killed as many people as you could, indiscriminately. And you tortured the ones you didn't kill. Then you had the gall to insult me by dressing that way, and blackmailed me into bringing you here. What makes you think you're in any position to be making demands?"

The question had hardly left his mouth before the alarm on the phone went off. He'd set it for five minutes to noon, right before he'd come downstairs to make the Joker change clothes, figuring it would be easier to keep the suit on for that short period of time, instead of changing in and out. He'd hooked the phone to the utility belt, deciding he may be in the cave for a while, knowing how well the Joker tended to cooperate. He unhooked the phone, glanced over at the Joker. And felt the unease again.

The Joker looked relieved. Not amused, not manic. Leaning back against the wall, hands in his lap, eyes closed, lips parted. His expression was one of pure relief. Because, Batman assumed, the alarm had interrupted their conversation, let him keep the makeup on longer. That, in theory, wasn't off-putting. If the Joker feared having the paint wiped away, of course he'd be grateful for anything that let him keep it on longer. But in practice…his expression was so _human_.

Even in his head, it sounded stupid. Of course the expression was human; the Joker was a human being, underneath it all. But he certainly didn't act that way. Nor, judging from his grandiose monologues about the rest of the world being 'worthless,' did he seem to feel like one. Such a striking reminder that he _was _a person, rather than the embodiment of chaos and anarchy he strived to be, was unsettling to say the least. He'd never seen the Joker look this way before. He'd always acted as more than just a man.

Then the Joker opened his eyes, and Batman was reminded of exactly why it was difficult to think of the man as human. The relief was gone, replaced by his standard psychotic happiness, a painfully wide smirk across his face. "_That's_ why." His voice was no longer distorted or shaking, instead back to its confident and calm, if harsh and slightly nasal, tone. "You touch my face, I won't call. Ask yourself, _Batsy_, is it worth blowing part of you precious city to hell, just to make me suffer?"

Damn. He had him there.

* * *

The Joker had been absolutely right about the pants. They were annoyingly loose. As was the shirt, it hung low enough for him to wear it as a dress. He hated clothes that didn't fit. When he'd first gotten his trench coat, it was loose, to make it easier to move, Abigail had said. He'd slammed her head into the wall a few times and made her redo it. Honestly, life was hard enough without ill-fitting garments.

He thought about taking the pants off, just wearing the shirt alone. But Bats had put the chains back on his ankles as soon as he'd got the jeans on, and denim was even harder to rip than elastic. Besides, the shirt was much shorter than the skirt had been, and underneath the jeans he had nothing on. While that didn't bother him, he doubted Batman would like it.

_Batman. _Just thinking about his other half, standing over him, threatening to wipe the paint away, made him shudder. On the inside, of course, he'd never show outward signs of discomfort. At least, not until today. He felt…betrayed by his body. And his mind. They'd never failed him like this before. Sure, he wasn't the best fighter, and there was that little static problem when he tried to remember things from the past, but those weren't _problems._ He'd never needed those things. This, though, showing weakness in front of Bats? Giving the man a way to control him?

He'd never felt hurt by himself, angry at himself in this way before. He'd never had to. He'd never been _weak _like this before. It was disgusting. He thought, for a moment, that he very nearly understood the inner loathing that had driven Jonny and Harley to slice their skin open, to punish themselves for their weakness. And the sudden understanding made him want to slam his head against the wall until he'd lost too much blood to do it anymore, until these thoughts were gone. Until he wasn't pathetic anymore.

_I'm better than this_. He raised a hand, felt the wound on his face. Bats hadn't being lying about the cement, he could feel bits of debris. He tried cleaning it out with his fingers, resulting in little more than reopening the bits that had scabbed, and sending little shockwaves of pain through his face. It could well become infected.

He almost wished it could, that the disease could rot out this part of him that felt such inexplicable fear, and leave the rest untouched. He wasn't even sure _why _the idea of the makeup coming off made him panic. _I'm above this. I'm more than just a person. _It never bothered him when Harley or Jonny saw him with it off, though he still preferred to have it on whenever possible, and he'd gone without it for some schemes. Hell, the only reason he threw fits when the Arkham staff washed it off was to make their lives more difficult. But with Batman, it was somehow different.

Maybe it was because Batman was more than just a person, too. They were both symbols, the Batman of truth and justice and apple pie, and the Joker of chaos, and anarchy and everything nice. Removing the paint, or the mask, brought the symbol back down to Earth, made it something tangible instead of something ideal, something to aspire to. And if one symbol saw the other symbol for what it truly was, that could destroy the exposed one, couldn't it? If everything it opposed saw it as only human, instead of more than just a man. He couldn't let that happen. The idea of Batman losing that vision of him was enough to make him gag.

_It doesn't matter, _he told himself, straightening back up and calming his breathing. _Because he won't see you that way. You've made sure of that. _The lovely thing about Batsy was that while his actions could be unpredictable, his morals never were. No matter how much he hated the Joker—or pretended to, Joker knew that deep down, Bats needed him in the same way he needed Bats—he wouldn't risk the lives of others just for the sake of making the Joker miserable. So he was safe.

Why then, this remaining feeling of unease?

Probably just because he'd had the freak out to begin with. There was nothing to be worried about. He was safe, the paint wasn't coming off, and while he may be able to break Batman, Batman could never break him. The unstoppable force would find a way around, or through, the immovable object at some point.

He kept that in mind long after he'd calmed down, for several hours. It had become a mantra of sorts, and a way to combat the boredom of the cell. Nothing broke his focus on that thought, at least until the lights suddenly went out.

* * *

AN: The comment Joker makes about God dust comes from a comment about Keira Knightley at the 2006 Academy Awards.

To those missing Jonathan, almost the entirety of the next chapter will be from his point of view. Unfortunately, there may be a slight delay on that, as tomorrow I'm going with my family to pick up my sister from college, and Sunday I'm going back up to school. But I will have it up as soon as I can.


	15. Pop

AN: Sorry about the delay.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

When the lights first flickered, Jonathan Crane had no idea of the storm raging outside. It had begun a few minutes after the Batman had made his way back to the Joker's cell and insisted he change, and over the hours had been steadily working itself from a light drizzle to a full-fledged downpour. The sort of rain that was accompanied by severe storm warnings on the news.

Jonathan knew none of that. All he knew was that the lights flickered, stayed off for perhaps a minute, then switched back on. And that the dripping from somewhere outside had become much more frequent, and louder.

His immediate act upon the room going dark had been to glance at the security consoles, the ones the Batman used to punch in the access codes to leave the cell. Both the one beside the door connecting the cells and one the Bat used to enter and exit were still on. Their faint light did nothing to illuminate the room, barely lit up so much as an inch of the space around them, but they were still functioning.

So either the electricity had gone out and the security system had a backup power supply, or the light bulb in his cell had burned out. Jonathan doubted it was the latter; the light had just flickered off silently, and burnt out bulbs tended to be accompanied by a popping sound and occasionally sparks. The power had gone out then. That, or the Batman had switched the light off. Some attempt at psychological torture, maybe? Didn't seem the Batman's style, but as he'd never been imprisoned by the man before, he really had no basis for comparison.

But the lights had flickered before going out, and flipping a switch to shut them off wouldn't do that. The power had cut out, then. Just as he'd decided that, it switched back on. He blinked against the sudden, harsh brightness. He hadn't expected the Batman to allow something like power failure in his lair or wherever they were. Someone so prepared should have a backup generator. Or maybe he had, and it took a moment to kick in.

He waited for a minute, watching the light. No flickering, or dimming. A backup, or the power had restored itself. What would have cut it in the first place, the weather? He considered the dripping outside. It wasn't rain. If the walls of the cell were thin enough to allow him to hear the rain outside, he'd also be able to hear wind. And a storm powerful enough to cut the electricity would certainly be accompanied by strong winds.

Not the rain, then. Still, whatever he was hearing had been picking up in speed and frequency not too long before the light had flickered, like a storm building in strength. It might be a coincidence, but Jonathan doubted it. Something affected by the rain, then. Possibly water—

'_Possibly' water? _Scarecrow sounded somewhere between amused and irritated. He had an odd habit of acting as if he knew more on a subject than Jonathan, though he couldn't. They shared all the knowledge, though that didn't keep him from considering himself superior, it seemed. _This, Jonathan, is why you can ponder things for hours and never make any process. What other liquid would the Batman let drip around his lair in mass quantities?_

_That would depend entirely on where the lair is, _Jonathan countered. _Say, for example, that we're in a factory of some kind. We could be hearing chemicals or something. Besides, why would he want large amounts of water in his lair?_

_You're the psychiatrist. You tell me._

As if having a doctorate made him the Riddler, or something. His other half could be rather dim.

_Love you too, Jonathan._

_Whatever. If that is water, I doubt there's any psychological reason to have it. More likely, it came with the location._

_So he finds the perfect place to store all his Bat gadgets, but the ceiling leaks?_

_Something like that. Though I doubt it's the ceiling._ Being hyper aware was torture, that was for sure, but it did have its advantages. The heightened sense of hearing, for example, allowed him to pick up on the faint echo of the dripping. A basement—he assumed they were underground, based on the low temperatures—would have to be very large to echo.

_Well, the Batman has to be rich, _Scarecrow offered. _It's not so surprising he'd have a massive lair._

_It's more than that. _He'd also thought he heard running water, though that was faint enough that it could well be his imagination. A leaking basement, maybe. But one with flowing water? Doubtful. Underground, cold, dripping, and running water. He doubted they were in any kind of a building at all.

_So where are we?_

_Possibly a cave, _he responded, right as the light went out a second time.

And stayed out.

Also unbeknownst to Jonathan, the cave did have a backup generator. One that had been tested by Bruce Wayne, upon first receiving it, and one that had powered the cave for five hours during that test without issue. The five hour test, however, had not been quite long enough to reveal the defect in the generator. The rotator blades in the turbine were faulty and would fail to spin if worked long enough, causing the entire machine to fail. While the five hours the generator had last been used wasn't quite long enough to cause that failure, the added ten minutes it had been powering the cave during the storm was.

All Jonathan knew was that the lights were out again. Aside from the faint glow of the security consoles. So they did have some sort of backup, be it battery-powered or otherwise. He wondered if the cameras did as well. Or if they had the night vision that would be necessary to record in the dark. Probably. But there was a chance, however slight, that he could make it into the Joker's cell without being intercepted first. Was it worth the risk, though?

He knew the Joker would have a plan. Though he claimed otherwise, and chaotic though they were, the Joker still made plans. He wouldn't have asked to come to his enemy's lair if he didn't have some idea for a method of escape. He may not be bored enough to leave yet, but the Joker didn't do well in a cage for long.

_And you're a part of it, _Scarecrow cautioned. _Otherwise he wouldn't have brought you. Maybe it's best if you don't pay him a visit._

_What's the worst he can do, puncture my lung again? _At least the Joker was predictably chaotic. He had no idea what was going on in the Batman's mind at any given moment. Bracing himself, he shrugged the blankets off, shivering at the cold air. The room was almost totally dark—_like a cave,_ he thought—and would have been, if not for the security console. He had to reach a hand out to find the wall. He didn't both to try shielding himself with the blankets. Even if the Batman saw how he got out of the chains, there was really no way to stop him from doing it again. No matter how he was chained, it was possible with the right drive.

It was a common misconception that slipping out of handcuffs required breaking the thumbs. It was possible to pull them off straight, though there was a good chance of breaking the wrists using that method, and tearing the skin was almost a given. Jonathan used a compromise; injury that gave added mobility, but wasn't as permanent as a fracture. Hopefully.

He reached out again to reassure himself of the wall's proximity, pulled the cuffs as low as they would go, and angled his wrist. He inhaled, braced himself. After years spend with his great-grandmother and classmates, and then the Joker, he knew far better than most how to dislocate joints, and shove them back into the sockets. It took nothing to pop it out really, just sudden impact to the area. But it seemed no matter how many times he did it, the pain never lessened.

He exhaled, struck his arm out so his wrist slammed into the cement in just the right way to-

CRACK.

_People assume, _he thought, as much as he could think, through the pain, _that it makes a popping sound. _In his experience, it had always made more of a crack. He tasted blood in his mouth, realized he'd bitten down on his tongue. That pain was nothing compared to the blaze of burning nerves his wrist had become. Bracing himself once more, he reached out with his other hand—having now lost the ability to move the injured one—and began to slide his immobile but much more flexible wrist through the cuff. He saw spots in front of his vision, even in this darkness, and reflected on how unhealthy all of this was. The cuff slid over his fingers, finally, hit the mattress. _Quarter of the way there._

_Not quite_. Scarecrow was right, unfortunately. He still had to pop it back into place, before it swelled too badly for him to be able to. He swallowed the blood in his mouth, nauseous, braced his hand against the wall. Saying it hurt like hell was a bit of an understatement at this point. The knowledge that joints were supposed to be put back in the sockets only with the patient sedated or put under didn't help in the slightest.

CRACK.

He was unable to hold back the cry of pain at that. Oh well. At least that was one down.

* * *

_Walking on ankles that you just popped in and out, _Scarecrow observed, as if Jonathan wasn't aware, _really fucking hurts._

At least he'd been able to get them back in. Dislocating the ankles was a ridiculously bad idea, given that the feet depended on their position for blood flow, but hey. He wasn't chained up anymore. He leaned against the wall, punched in what he thought was the pass code into the security console against the door to the Joker's cell. And heard the lock click.

Well, finally a part of the day that didn't completely suck.

He pushed the door open. The cell on the other side was every bit as black as his own. So it was a power outage, and not some elaborate attempt at torture. Probably. "Joker?"

For a moment, there was nothing. And then Jonathan thought he heard a faint whimpering sound. Like a dog.

Well, that must have been hyper sensitivity at work. Because if there was one sound the Joker would not make, it was that. Unless it was part of some scheme. Lovely. It was dark and he was injured, and the Joker chose now to start playing games. "Joker?"

"Who is that?" His voice was..small. Even as Jonathan thought it, it sounded ridiculous. This was the Joker. The living embodiment of confidence and the master of drawing attention. Nothing he did was small, it was all exaggerated and miles over the top. And yet that was the only word for it.

_So much for predictably chaotic._

"I-it's Jonathan." Cautiously, he began to move through the doorway, wincing at the pain. It might hurt less to move more quickly, but he wasn't about to risk it. He could barely see his own hand in front of his face, let alone where the Joker was in the room. And he didn't trust this sudden, new temperament of the Joker's. He'd fallen for too many of the man's schemes to trust him anymore, friendship or not.

"Jonathan?" Again, the voice was horribly unnerving. He had no idea what the Joker was playing at, but it made him shudder almost as badly the pain from the dislocations had. "C'mere."

Jonathan wondered just how many times he'd heard his grandmother or classmates say something akin to 'Come here, I'm not going to hurt you' before doing something agonizing. And then realized he was walking over anyway. The Joker was like a magnet, really. He moved forward slowly, arms out like a blind man, until his foot brushed against a mattress and he sat, just as slowly.

"Jonathan?"

"I'm right here." He had just the time to reflect that the Joker's voice was shaking before there were arms around him, tight enough to restrict his breathing. He didn't feel chains. Apparently the Joker had gotten his off as well. Not that there was time to reflect on that now; he had to get out of here before the Joker cracked his ribs again, or whatever he was planning on doing. He inhaled as deeply as he could like this, intent on struggling as hard and long as possible, and then realized the arms holding him were doing just that. Holding, nothing more.

Of course, that could well be the set up to something horrible. That's all their relationship had been, the Joker being sweet and caring and then pulling the rug out from under Jonathan's feet. But against his better judgment and experience, he didn't think that was the case this time.

_Don't fall for it, Jonathan._ Scarecrow sounded forceful, sure. Jonathan had his doubts. "Are you…all right?" he asked, going stiff in anticipation of a violent retaliation.

"Fine." His voice was no longer shaking, and somewhat louder, but still nowhere near its usual bravado. Which, if that was possible, unnerved Jonathan more than violence would have. What was going on? He'd heard an argument in the next room, but as neither of them was screaming anymore, he hadn't heard specifics. It seemed hyper awareness didn't pick up on voices as well as water, for some reason. Or maybe the soundproofing in that wall was better than he'd thought. Had the Batman done this? What sort of monstrous torture would one have to inflict to throw the _Joker_ off balance? "Yourself?"

"All right." Aside from the swelling in his wrists and ankles, anyway. And the ache every time he moved them. Not that he was going to admit weakness in front of the Joker, even if the Clown Prince of Crime was acting out of sorts. He'd been tricked too many times to trust him again.

"You can open the door, then?"

"Yes. I figured out the code by listening to the Batman punch it in. Hyper awareness and all. Has its advantages, even if it's miserable ninety-nine percent o f the time. Can you open the door?"

"Haven't tried." The arms around him tightened, ignoring his gasp of pain. "Look, no escaping, got it?" For a moment, he almost sounded like his usual self.

"G-got it." The grip loosened. His heart stopped pounding. "You've planned something, then? For us to get out?"

"You know how I feel about plans." When he wasn't being threatening, it seemed his voice went back to being weak. What the hell was going on? "But yeah, when I go you're coming with me. No leaving without me, Jonny, that's rude."

A moment of silence passed. The Joker's breathing, Jonathan noted, was uneven. He felt like Alice, fallen down the rabbit hole and dropped into a world that made no sense. The Joker acting uneasy was a sure sign of the apocalypse.

"I think we're in a cave," he said, to break the silence. "It sounds like a cave, anyway. The dripping sound."

For a moment he thought the Joker wasn't going to respond. Then, "Makes sense."

"Doesn't give much of a clue to the location, though." Gotham was practically built over caves. Assuming they were in Gotham, still. The Batman could travel into the city each night, Jonathan supposed, his Batmobile could certainly move fast enough. But he doubted that; given how much the city seemed to mean to the Batman, he was almost certainly a resident. "Might be the Palisades. He has to be rich. With his Batmobile and Kevlar armor and Batarangs and grappling guns. Or working for someone who is. Though I don't know how you'd hire someone to do that, dress up like a bat and run around the city risking death each night. Unless that person owed you a life debt or something, or you found a way to blackmail them." He was rambling again, he knew, not that he could help it.

The Joker didn't respond. Jonathan glanced around the cell, though he wasn't sure why. His eyes still hadn't adjusted—furthering the belief that they were in a cave—and the only sources of light were the security consoles, as in his cell. How long had it been now, since they'd lost power a second time? Twenty minutes? Half an hour? Too long. The Batman was always prepared, and this should be no exception. Why hadn't the power come back on?

Or maybe the lights failing had been intentional. Perhaps the Batman was trying to torture them, but to test and see what they'd do. His cameras and microphones could be picking this up right now. Hell, the Batman himself could be in here right now. God knew he probably had night vision goggles. He probably had everything in the world on that utility belt, ranging from a Swiss army knife to shark repellant. It wasn't as if they'd know, dark as this place was. He could be in a corner right this moment, watching.

_Christ. _He shivered at the thought, the Joker holding tighter and muttering an absent, quiet, "'S all right," into his ear. Because captivity wasn't terrible enough, his mind just had to come up with these horrible scenarios. He was oddly grateful now that his grandmother used to lock him in closets; if he hadn't outgrown his fear of the dark, he would likely be a sobbing mess right now.

_Wait a minute…_ Something in his mind clicked. A click that it then immediately tried to reject. It couldn't be. It was beyond ridiculous. Too stupid to entertain for a moment. But still.

The Joker's tight hold on him. The shake and weakness to his voice. The general absence to his tone when he answered, and the way he hadn't recognized Jonathan's voice. His disturbed breathing. It all fit. It was still idiotic, and his mind was still trying to reject it the way the body rejected foreign matter. But stupid as it seemed, it did fit.

_Is the Clown Prince of Crime afraid of the dark?_

* * *

AN: Speaking as someone who's dislocated her shoulder twice, it's miserable. I still remember the pain of having it put back, and I was about three at the time. I don't remember the pain itself, but I remember sobbing. A lot. That shoulder still clicks when I move it the right way, too.

In the Adam West Batman movie, Batman had shark repellant.


	16. Static

AN: So I think my computer may have some sort of virus. Luckily, it doesn't seem to be affecting my ability to type and upload chapters.

In other news, I just had my roommate take pictures of how I wasted my life over spring break, and you can see them, in case you're curious. This is what happens when I go into fabric stores, people. Just remove the spaces: http:// i158. photobucket. com/ albums/ t92/ Lauralot/ DSC01571. jpg http:// i158. photobucket. com/ albums/ t92/ Lauralot/ DSC01572. jpg My grandmother did the actual form sewing, as I'm terrible at that, but the decorative stitching and such is mine. I really need a hobby.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

_Ridiculous. _And that was the only word for it, ridiculous. Jonathan repeated it once more, in a vain attempt to silence the Scarecrow, who was now giggling at the idea of the Joker having a fear of the dark. He couldn't be; he wasn't afraid of anything.

_He's only human, _Scarecrow countered, pausing mid-laugh.

_Hardly. _Biologically, the Joker may be human as anyone else, but emotionally and mentally, he was a breed of his own. Somewhat like the Batman. Jonathan knew that he was only a man in a costume, but ever since that fateful night in the basement of Arkham, it was hard to keep from seeing him as something more, something like the demons his grandmother had spoken of so often. An inhuman, fearless monster. As was the Joker.

_Explain why he's hanging onto you like a frightened child, then._

It could have been any number of reasons. Most likely, he was scheming something; trying to throw Jonathan off balance. Or the Batman. This could be a trick in case the cameras were still working, to make Batman think the clown had a weakness that could be exploited. Yes, a trick would make the most sense. Or a game to amuse himself with no goal in mind. Or maybe he was unnerved, but by something else. Whatever had happened with the Batman could be taking a toll. The Bat was good at tearing people apart. Jonathan knew that better than most. Maybe better than anyone.

_It's been hours since the Batman was down here, _Scarecrow argued.

_It's been years since he sprayed the toxin in my face and it still affects me. Same difference. Besides, it can't be a fear of the dark. Arkham's dark at night, and the only fits he threw there were out of boredom._

_Arkham has windows. And even the cells without them let light from the hall shine in. It's never dark like this._

He had a point. Even with the hall lights dimmed and a cloudy night, Arkham never got near this blackness. Still. This was the Joker. And while he knew no one was immune to fear, he simply could not make his mind adjust to the Joker having a fear of anything, let alone the dark. A creature like him seemed the type to thrive in the shadows, popping out and terrifying the unsuspecting bystanders.

"How'dya get out?" the Joker asked, breaking his train of thought. He noticed, for the first time, that the arms around him had sleeves. He wasn't wearing the dress. When had that happened?

"Dislocated my wrists to slide the cuffs off."

"Should've done it to the thumbs," the Joker muttered. It was almost frightening, hearing his usual expertise come out in this very unusual voice. "It's easier that way."

"I'm not exactly thinking clearly right now," he said, with a glance around the room. Now that he'd wondered if the Batman wasn't hidden in the shadows somewhere, he couldn't get the idea out of his head. Damn imagination. "I mean, clearly enough to get out and punch the access code, but not much past that. I don't know why I came over here. Even if you did have a plan, the odds of you sharing it are microscopic. All I've succeeded in doing is injuring myself and probably getting beaten to death as punishment. How did you get out anyway?"

Silence. There was only the dripping outside and the sound of their breathing.

"Joker?"

"Just making sure you were finished ranting before I said anything. Tell me, was the therapists' plan to, uh, make progress in your sessions by making you unable to stop telling 'em things?"

"I think so." He noticed that the Joker's voice was almost back to normal, though his arms were still crushingly tight around Jonathan's body. He mused, briefly, that if the Joker wasn't faking, he'd become a security blanket of sorts. Another sign that he had to be faking. Jonathan refused to accept such madness as a Joker security blanket. "You never answered my question."

"It's a secret."

"Of course it is." He rolled his eyes. Even when the Joker was acting disturbingly out of sorts, he was still irritating as hell. Jonathan wondered why he was surprised by that. He'd have thought he'd lost his ability to be surprised by the man anymore. But then, it was hard to become desensitized by a man mad enough to be willingly captured while in drag. "Joker?"

"Yeah?"

He knew he shouldn't. It was an incredibly stupid idea, and liable to get something else torn out of the socket, but he couldn't help it. Damn scientific curiosity, and damn Scarecrow for egging him on. "Are you…" He had the self preservation not to say 'afraid.' "That is…do you not like the dark?"

For over a minute, there was no reply. Then Jonathan stifled a scream as the Joker's hand grabbed his injured wrist and squeezed.

* * *

He wanted to laugh at that. More than anything, he just wanted to shrug it off after a good scoff at Jonny's idiocy. At the very least, he should have been able to ignore it. While causing his friend pain was a good way to discourage such stupid questions from being asked again, it was also sending a hint that the discussion made him uncomfortable.

And terrible a psychiatrist as Jonny Crane had been—though certainly more interesting than most—he was sure to pick up on that little fact.

He could hear tiny whimpers of pain as Jonny tried to keep from shouting. Well, that was no good. The little scarecrow had pissed him off with his annoying insight, and his mood wasn't going to improve any until he heard screams. Not, given how the day had been going, that it would improve much after the screaming, but he'd take what he could get. He held tighter, twisted.

Ah, and there was the scream. He let it carry for about ten seconds, let go. The sound ended shortly thereafter, replaced by panting. As he'd expected, it didn't do shit to make him happier. At least Jonny may have learned a lesson in shutting up.

He waited for a moment to let the message sink in. "Jonny." He stretched the word out, tried to make himself sound as casual as possible. He knew he'd shown weakness, and that turned his stomach. But he couldn't make himself stop hugging the man as if lives hung in the balance. Lives that, for some bizarre reason, he was actually interested in preserving. Which was just fucked up.

"W-what?"

So he'd inspired pain and fear enough to cause stuttering. Good to know. So why didn't he feel amused? There were butterflies kickboxing in his insides, from the feel of it, and not the good kind of butterflies, the sort that showed up when he was face to face with the Batman or blowing up a bus full of nuns or something. No, these were the sort of butterflies that served Satan, the type to make their arrival when…he found he had no analogy for this type of butterflies. He'd never felt them before, and hoped never to feel them again.

"Don't ask stupid questions, got it?"

"Got it. I'm sorry." Joker almost smiled at that; Jonny sounded as if it pained him to say, but rambled on regardless. "I didn't mean to—that is—I can't shut up and my mind won't stop racing and every single idiotic thing that pops into my head keeps coming out before I can close my mouth to stop it."

It occurred to him that the last time Jonny had been ranting like this in front of him, he'd knocked him out. The time before that, he'd put a hand over his mouth. Now, he was content to sit back and listen. Well, not listen, but hear. He needed a background noise. He didn't know why he needed it, but he did. Anything was better than sitting back and letting these thoughts get to him.

No, not thoughts. Static.

Whenever he tried thinking about his past, there was the white noise and fuzz. But it also materialized on occasion _without _his thinking about it, like someone had switched the channels in his brain mid-program, trying to reach a station his mind didn't receive. He'd never given much thought to it before. He assumed it happened at times when others would be remembering something from their past, where there were blank spots in his memory. Whatever was going on in his head, it had never been an issue. The empty spaces were few and far in between, and only lasted for a few seconds, usually. He saw no point in concerning himself over them.

Until now.

Something had…happened when the power cut out. He didn't know how to describe it past that, because he'd never felt it before. Not that he could remember, anyway. The first time the light had gone out, his stomach had dropped, like it did when he went racing down a steep hill in a speeding car. He'd already been feeling out of sorts from the threat of having his makeup off, and the darkness didn't help. At all. The second his eyes registered that the light was gone, he'd felt a sense of unease, a tightness in his chest as if he'd tried breathing in a place where the air was too thin to sustain him.

Fear. Rare of a sensation as it was for him, the Joker recognized it. The exposure to it earlier, with the threat of losing his face in front of the Batman, helped to define it. But at least that fear made _sense. _He and the Bat were symbols, and he didn't want to be deconstructed in front of his rival. But the dark? That was insanity. And he would know, he'd spent time around the insane. Most of his henchmen were picked out of Arkham's finest, after all.

It just didn't make sense. Normally that wouldn't bother him, but for the first time, he wanted some shred of stability. He _wasn't _afraid of the dark. He wasn't afraid of anything, aside from this annoying anxiety about being de-makeovered. He wasn't fond of the dark, true, but only because it made walking around without crashing into things harder. Just because he preferred to have a light on, that didn't make him afraid. The darkness had never held such power over him before.

This wasn't normal darkness, though. It was darker than darker, somehow, as if this cell had never seen the light of day and never would. He couldn't explain why it made him want to crawl under the sheets on the mattress and hide, but that was the urge he felt, and he might have done it, had the light not chosen that moment to come back on.

He'd tried to shrug it off, tell himself it was only stress from the Bat encounter from before. And that might have worked, would have worked, if the power hadn't cut out again less than fifteen minutes later.

The second he registered the darkness that time, there was a burst of static.

After the static ended, there was a brief period where the Joker had been left to feel sickened and wonder just what the hell was going on. Then there was another flash of static, and another, and the Joker lost all capability for rational thought until Jonny snapped him out of it by calling his name.

He'd never experienced true panic, not even with Bats threatening to remove his face, but looking back on the period before Jonny had come in, his behavior seemed terribly close to how others reacted in his presence. Horrified. He hadn't been thinking. He couldn't, even when he tried. The static kept coming, more frequently and longer, and the pictures he was seeing when the static cleared were not nice. Not nice at all.

He'd tried hiding under the sheets, only to feel like the walls were closing in and he'd had to find the paperclips and unchain himself, not caring if the Batman saw it on film. He wanted to run around the cell, touch the walls to assure himself that the distance hadn't changed, but he couldn't. He couldn't move. He didn't know what it was about the dark that set off the white noise, or memories, or whatever they were, but he couldn't stand it. Whatever it was about total darkness that had the power to paralyze him, he didn't want to know.

Nor did he want to think about this anymore. It had been unnerving enough the first time; he certainly didn't want to relive it. Suppressing a shudder, he forced himself to tune into whatever Jonny was going on about.

"—probably done myself a permanent injury this way and when the Batman catches me over here, he's going to kill me or worse, because he doesn't kill so he'll just torture me as horribly as possible—"

He zoned him out again, without meaning to. _Batman_. The name hit him like a bucket of ice water over the head. In February. In the arctic. It had been making him uneasy since long before the power went out, ever since the Bat had reached out to touch his face, but in this darkness it was worse than ever. What was going on? Was this Batman's fault? Had the Caped Crusader snapped something in his mind with the threat of removing the makeup, frayed the wires so they sparked instead of sending information? Had he caused the static?

It had to be something the Bat had done. Had to be. Because the dark had never made his heart hammer this way before. That blow to his head must have scrambled his brains. Heavens knows Bats had slammed him into enough things to do permanent damage by now. So this wasn't a weakness on his part. That should have reassured him.

It didn't. Batman was not supposed to have power over him like this. They were equals. Equals, but the Joker was the one meant to be ahead of the curve. Because he understood the monster deep inside the Bat, and that made him know the man better than Bats knew himself. Or so he thought. He'd never thought the monster could exert that power back. Make the Joker feel on edge, for once. For the first time.

And what did that mean for him, if it was the Batman's fault? It might not be his weakness, but he was still the prisoner of someone who had this terrible power over him, someone who could turn him into a frightened, whimpering mess. It hurt. Both the knowledge that someone could do this to him and the fact that the love of his life would treat him this way. What did it mean for him and Batsy? How were things between them supposed to recover after this? Could they recover? He didn't like uncertainty. It had never bothered him before, but in this darkness, the whole world seemed to have rearranged.

Jonny was still rambling. He was trying to pay attention again when the lights flickered back on.

His friend stopped mid-sentence, and Joker let him go at once, leaning back, staring straight toward the light until his eyes watered. He basked in its glow, appreciating the illumination as he never had before. No wonder God had created light first. It was beautiful.

He felt Jonny staring at him and stopped, looking back down at the mattress. The paperclips were sitting there, twisted from picking the locks. He picked them up, smoothed them out. The panic was gone, as the static had stopped. He had just enough time to bend the paperclips to fit inside his mouth once more as the door opened, and the Batman entered the cell.

* * *

AN: Joker's not so much suffering from a fear of the dark here as a mix of claustrophobia, a fear of total darkness, and being on edge from the threat of losing his makeup. I don't see him as being afraid of the dark unless there are extenuating circumstances, such as now. Normally it would just annoy him, or something minor.


	17. Cuffs and Gauze

AN: Sorry about the delay, I had a group presentation to work on.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

The only thing worse than having the generator fail when there were dangerous criminals in the cave, Batman decided, as he stared at the sight before him, was the fact that said criminals had managed to free themselves from their restraints during that period of darkness. And remembering that, unlike the security consoles, the cameras had only been backed up by the generator, so he wouldn't have _how _they freed themselves on tape. And noting that one of them had managed to open the door. Wonderful.

He knew he should have risked going into one of the cells, darkness or not. He had night vision goggles, after all, and if he'd gone down when he first wanted, right after the generator had failed, he almost certainly would have gotten there before the two freed themselves. Probably just in time to catch one of them in the act, and discover the method they'd used. But Alfred had insisted Bruce remain out of the cells until he'd fixed the generator. If, he'd argued, they'd already managed to get free, Bruce would be walking straight into a trap. If they hadn't yet, and they tried to escape while he was outside the cells, he'd see them through the night vision goggles and be able to apprehend them before they heard him coming. A luxury he wouldn't have if he announced his presence by opening the door.

He wanted to argue, but he was already asking Alfred to risk so much, going into a pitch black cave where, for all he knew, the Joker and the Scarecrow could already be running loose. He was asking more than enough from his friend already; it seemed heartless to deny the man's request regarding his safety. Still, seeing them unchained made it incredibly difficult to remember the benefits to staying outside. Especially knowing that Jonathan Crane had somehow opened the door. Or that the Joker had and pulled the Scarecrow into his cell, Batman couldn't be sure.

"_So _kind of you to drop in, Batsy." Smirking, the Joker stretched his arms out, wrapped them around the slender man sitting in front of him on the mattress. "Though the business with the lights was a bit, uh, off putting. Didya forget to pay your electric bill, or are ya unable to because you've spent all your money on Bat gadgets?"

The wound on the Joker's forehead had stopped bleeding, dried blood caked around the abrasion and on the skin below. He didn't seem to be any worse for wear from the injury, looking confident and cocky as ever. It was as if the earlier incident with the makeup had never happened. Batman wondered if the clown had even been fazed by the power outage. He'd seemed agitated after the lights first blinked, from the little Bruce had seen on the security cameras before the generator failed, but perhaps that had been amusement.

Crane looked perfectly opposite from the clown hugging him, pale and slightly shaking. The logical reaction, Batman supposed, to being caught by one's nemesis in what appeared to be an attempted escape. Not that the Joker would ever behave logically. He had all the sense and restraint of a rabid dog.

"What are you doing?" He growled it more than he asked, and he saw Crane stiffen in response. The Joker, calm as ever, clamped a hand over his friend's mouth before he could begin rambling, looked up through his eyelashes at Batman with an expression of mock innocence.

"_Visiting, _Bats. It's not often we get to talk with an orderly hovering over us or a wall in the way. You act as if there's something _sinister _about catching up with each other." He kept one hand over Crane's mouth, wound the other through the man's hair. "Just 'cause you've got communication issues, it doesn't mean we all do."

"How did you get out of the chains?"

"It's a secret," the Joker whispered, eyes glittering. "You're going to have to, uh, _earn _that information if ya wanna know." He licked his lips, leaning forward to rest his head on Crane's shoulder.

"How did you get out?" He could, if needed, growl every bit as horribly as the Joker, and then some. Crane looked seconds from passing out at the sound, while the Joker remained as unaffected as ever. Entertained, if anything.

"Now what did I just say, Batsy?" He raised his head and shook it with a sigh. "Is English your second language or something? 'Cause you don't seem to have a good grasp of it. Always ignoring me or repeating yourself…you don't have an accent, though, and that's something."

He didn't trust himself not to respond violently to the clown, so he opted for not responding at all. The Joker thrived on attention anyway. Ignoring him, provided there was ample time to stop whatever scheme he'd cooked up, worked far better than interrogating him, though it did tend to lead to violent outbursts. And the Joker had a talent for pushing just the right buttons to make himself impossible to ignore.

The Joker stared at him as the seconds ticked by, mouth being to twitch with the boredom he was doing an uncharacteristically good job of repressing. It must have been at least five minutes before he smacked his lips and spoke again. "You've got a first-aid kit thing on your belt, don'tcha?"

As if he hadn't seen it earlier. What, did he want the wound disinfected now? It was possible his panic from before at the idea of losing his makeup had been another game—likely, even, given the man's personality—but the fear had seemed so real. For once he'd thought that the Joker was showing a true emotion besides mania, and he still couldn't shake the interpretation. "Your point being?"

He trailed his hand down from Crane's hair to his shoulder. Batman noted that his fingers were still stained from painting with his blood. From there his hand moved down Crane's arm, stopping at the wrist. Crane started violently, though the Joker did nothing more than raise his friend's arm. "'Cause Jonny here decided it would be a smart idea to dislocate his wrists to get out. I just thought you might wanna, uh, do something about that?"

Now that his attention was drawn to it, he noticed the bruises around Crane's wrist, the redness and the swelling of the skin. A quick look determined that the other wrist was likewise injured, as was either ankle. He recalled that dislocating could lead to permanent nerve and muscle damage, as well as lack of circulation.

He also noted that the Joker was not similarly injured, at least not in a visible way. "How did _you_ get out?"

"Like I said, if you wanna know that, you've gotta earn it, sweetie." He took his hands off Crane, lounged back on the mattress. "I can think of several ways for ya to do that, should you be so _inclined_."

Batman wondered if it would be worth letting the bombs go off to threaten taking the Joker's makeup again, just to see the fear on his face. Probably not, no matter how tempting it was. And now that the Joker was unrestrained, it would be dangerous to attempt. If he was able to move unfettered, Batman suspected his reaction to fear would be less to hide in the corner and more to lash out with all he had. He turned his attention to Crane, still sitting on the mattress in between the upside-down V created by the Joker's legs, but no longer being touched by the clown.

"Crane."

The man flinched but for once managed to stay silent without a hand over his mouth.

"Go over to the door. And don't move." He didn't need to add a threat. It was implied already, in his tone, and with Crane's injuries and current mental condition, he was in no state to make a break for it. Crane shot a glance to the Joker, as if waiting for his approval, standing only after the clown failed to object. Batman watched as he limped across the cell, imagining the pain of the injuries. A person would have to be insane to do that to himself to gain a moment's freedom; not that Jonathan Crane had trouble meeting that requirement. Still. He wondered if Crane had done it to himself at all, or if it was the Joker who'd learned to open the door, and had broken his companion out and lied about it.

He waited until Crane had reached the opposite wall to stride over to the mattress, dropping down suddenly to pin the Joker in place and restrain him again before he could fight back. The Joker didn't protest; only lay back, watching with an unreadable expression, and promptly raised himself up on his elbows to grind against Batman the second the wrist cuffs were snapped into place.

If the punch to the face he received in retaliation hurt him in the slightest, he didn't show it. Instead, he lay back down, grin revealing bloodstained teeth. "Now, what was it I told ya about starting with the head?"

Batman put the ankles cuffs back on him without response, taking Crane with him as he punched in the access code and stepped inside the other cell.

* * *

"Fuzzy," the Joker said, when the door was closed. It made everything fuzzy. There were worse things in the world than being fuzzy, he supposed. Like the static. Or losing his face.

Still, he'd been hoping for a blow a bit more lasting. The grinding hadn't been done for his own amusement, as hilarious as it had been to see Batsy's eyes bulging out of his head when he'd realized just what his captive was doing. He'd done it to feel that good pain again, something to distract him from whatever the hell was going on inside his head. And to distract Bats as well.

His threat about refusing to call if his makeup was removed was working for now, but he didn't want to take any chances. When Bat was really enraged, he tended to forget things like psychological tactics or gathering information and reverted to simpler methods. Chiefly, grabbing the Joker and repeatedly slamming him into any available surface. Which not only felt fantastic, it had the added benefit of making Batsy forget more refined, effective methods.

Methods that he was still disgusted affected him at all. He was meant to be fearless, and not in the 'I say I'm fearless to make myself feel powerful when really I jump at the sight of dust bunnies' type of fearlessness, a la Jonny Crane. Truly fearless, above it all. He'd actually had to force himself not to shudder when the Batman came in, and when he was being cuffed again. The love of his life straddling him, and he'd wanted to shudder. It was beyond disgusting, moving toward the realm of truly disturbing.

He didn't know what he'd done to deserve this. Well, all the murder and crime might have had something to do with it, but to be so horribly betrayed by his own mind had to be a massive over-retaliation. What were a few dozen lives compared to his happiness? Unbalanced karma aside, he couldn't take this. Nor could he just run away. He didn't give up, and doing so would amount to gift-wrapping a weakness and handing it over for Bats to exploit.

No, he'd have to deal with things in a more subtle method.

An eye for an eye, as the saying went. Batman had threatened his security and made him this uncomfortable, so he'd return the favor. Revenge wasn't the most chaotic of concepts, maybe, but it would certainly improve his mood. Besides, he might just break that Bat, and that would lead to disarray as never before seen by humanity.

Whatever he accomplished, it was going to be fun.

* * *

Crane would never, never understand the people who viewed the Batman as a hero. He could understand those who claimed the man was doing a better job protecting Gotham City than the GPD, they were absolutely correct, corrupt as the police were. But those who viewed the Batman as an infallible symbol of good and justice? He would never be able to wrap his mind around that. Likely because the people who came up with such an idea were absolute fools.

The embodiment of hope and goodness would not slam someone in the face with enough force to take knock out a small elephant, not unless his personal safety was at risk. The only reason the Joker hadn't been concussed or worse by the blow was because he was, well, the Joker. The same could not be said for himself, and as it was he was injured and locked in a cell with the Batman.

Sometimes he wondered if experimenting on and occasionally killing his patients and others was really enough to deserve all the terrible things that happened to him.

"Let me see your hands."

He tried to stay silent. He really did. But much as he wanted to, he couldn't make it take. "I wasn't trying to escape or plotting to kill you or anything else that would make your job more difficult and it's painful enough as it is so I'd prefer it if you didn't make it worse, just chain me back up and be on your merry way without beating me senseless because as amusing as I'm sure you find that, I doubt I can take much more without my blood pressure skyrocketing and my heart failing entirely, so—"

"Sit down."

His mind had barely registered the command before his body obeyed it, quickly enough that he was almost surprised to feel the mattress under him. It occurred to him that once upon a time he'd had dignity, enough control over himself that he wouldn't have obeyed a command from the Batman unless his life depended on it or there was a certainty of severe pain to come if he didn't. He missed those days. If ever he got out of this, he was changing his meds back. Or going off them completely. At least when he was off the deep end and impaling himself with a nail gun, he was too out of it to know he'd lost his dignity.

"Let me see your hands." The tone was flat enough to give him absolutely no idea what was going on in the Batman's head. Which was just every bit if not more frightening than when he was obviously angry.

He held his wrists out, forcing himself to keep from looking away. The anticipation of pain always made things worse, so if he had an idea of what was coming beforehand, it would be better than letting his imagination run wild. Hopefully. He went stiff as the Batman took hold of one of his arms, bracing himself for more of the agony he'd gone through when he'd stupidly questioned the Joker.

That didn't happen.

Instead, he was perplexed to discover that the Batman was wrapping gauze around his wrist. Uncomfortable, yes, but not too painful. Confusing as hell, however. Why gauze? He was bruised, not cut. He watched the Bat's progress in silence, only realizing about a minute or so into the process. The Batman wasn't using the gauze to bandage the injury, he was using it to keep Crane's wrist immobile. As a way to keep him from twisting the joints and muscles as they healed. And to stop him from doing it again.

He was wrapping the second wrist before he spoke again. "You did this to yourself?"

"I know, it was an idiotic idea and it could have caused permanent damage and for all I know it well may have, just do me a favor and don't make me suffer for it until I've recuperated enough that moving my hand a certain way doesn't send pain shooting up—"

"Enough. I wanted to make sure that it was you who'd done it, not the Joker." He taped the gauze into place, moved on to the ankles. Crane had to will himself not to kick when he felt the glove against his foot. If the Batman interpreted a kick as a hostile action, he'd be in for unimaginable pain, and if he recognized the kick for what it was…well, it had been bad enough when the Joker had found out Crane was ticklish. He had no desire to spread that information to anyone else, least of all his nemesis. "How did you get out of your cell to begin with?"

"I memorized the access code by listening to the tones." He would have slapped himself for saying it, if he could move his wrists enough to do so. Damn medication and its side effects. As if he hadn't had enough of a problem shutting up before all this.

"That's impossible." He didn't sound convinced, though. Crane supposed that having a mad clown masturbate in front of one's security cameras would render them to believe just about anything was capable of happening.

"Not if you're hyper aware. And not the point. I'm an escaped mental patient and you're keeping me locked up in a cell God knows where on the whims of another mental patient, yet you're concerned enough for my safety to care whether or not said mental patient is dislocating my joints? I think your priorities are out of order, though I suppose that wouldn't be too strange, considering that you—"

"I'm not," Batman said, cutting him off to both of their reliefs, "keeping you here because I want to. As soon as I find the bombs or his henchmen, you'll be back in Arkham."

"Fine by me." For once, he was able to let silence fall between them. As with his wrists, his ankles were immobilized and the cuffs were snapped back on. Then the Batman was gone, making an exit so sudden and quiet that had Crane not been watching, he would have missed it altogether.

It was only about half an hour afterward that Jonathan realized how thickly wrapped the gauze was around him. It had to be, to immobilize the joints, but it was only secured with medical tape. Easy to pull off, leaving him with added room in the cuffs. Even more room once the swelling went down. It occurred to him that for a genius detective, the Batman didn't always have the brightest ideas.

Not that he was about to point that out. As Napoleon Bonaparte had said, never interrupt your enemy when he's making a mistake.


	18. Apple

AN: The Joker referring to Harvey's facial burn as "bacony" is a reference to the Batman crack comic _Apples to Apples_ by lascaux on Deviant Art, in which the Joker calls him "Bacon Face." I love _Apples to Apples, _even if it is completely insane and out of character. If you haven't seen it and you don't mind crack, check it out, but be warned that you won't be able to see the fifth page unless you're a site member.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

An apple.

There was an apple sitting on the tray. He stared at it as he ate the toast, crumbs falling onto the bloodstained sheets as he tore the bread to bits. The room was silent, aside from the sound of his chewing. And the lip smacking, but there wasn't too much of that. He ate with his mouth open. It made chewing easier, and had the added advantage of disgusting everyone in the vicinity.

Not that there was anyone in the vicinity. He'd slept through the Batman coming in again, waking up alone, aside from the toast, the water—in an unbreakable glass of course—and the apple. It seemed Batsy hadn't wanted to stick around and chat. Rude on his part, really, given that the Joker had actually been civil when he'd made the phone call at midnight. Apparently he was still sore over the dry humping incident. People and their overreactions. Ridiculous.

He was surprised by how well the Bat's patience was holding, though. Sure, Bats was supposed to be about restraint and control, but in the Joker's experience it didn't take much to push him into a violent, incredibly sexy rage. He'd have thought Batman would be slamming his head into walls and demanding to know the location of the bombs before the first day was out. Maybe he was relieving tension in some other way. Like beating the straw out of the Scarecrow.

That had better not be it. If anyone was getting beaten here, it should be the Joker. He'd earned it. Multiple times.

The apple, though.

There wasn't anything remarkable about it. It was average-sized, apple shaped. There was no sticker on it to indicate the brand—maybe Batsy was afraid of being traced through his grocery purchases—and the peel reflected the light from overhead, albeit dully. The Joker recalled that apples, like many fruits, candies, pills, and furniture, were polished with shellac to give them that appetizing shine. And that shellac was made from the excrement of Kerria lacca insects, along with the bugs themselves that were accidentally scooped up with their shit.

_Yummy._

Not that that bothered him. Insects weren't too bad as he knew—or at least, was pretty sure he remembered—from experience. And eating an insect involved consuming the waste inside it as well. Back to the apple. There was a faint bruise toward the stem, and the peel was a mix of yellow and red. It divided in an almost perfect vertical line between the two colors on one side, which for whatever reason brought to mind Harvey Dent's burnt, bacony face. Which would have been funny, if the damn fruit wasn't pissing him off so badly.

He couldn't eat it. He couldn't open his mouth widely enough, thanks to the scars. Like a kid with braces, he wasn't going to be able to get a good enough grip to bite through. He didn't even have to try; he'd experimented with enough different foods to what he could and couldn't consume. And of course Bats hadn't provided a knife. He glared down at the tray.

The apple stared back, mocking him.

His eye twitched. Yesterday had been trying enough; he wasn't about to sit back and let an inanimate object taunt him about his limitations. And here he'd thought it was irritating when Harley cut his food into bite size pieces for him as if he was three. Well, he wasn't about to stand for it. He supposed if he wanted to, he could just gouge pieces out with his nails, but that was beneath him. Anyway, his head hurt. And the cut there from yesterday ached and burned in a bad way.

Well, the pain wasn't important. He wasn't going to stand for this apple shit. He'd let the Batman have a quiet night, but he was going to exact revenge for being frightened, and Batsy had provided the perfect opportunity with this apple.

He shifted his cuff as low as it would go on his left wrist, unwrapping the gauze Batman had put there yesterday. He felt that weird sick feeling that he'd had when he'd realized he was bleeding the day prior, in anticipation of his next action. He fought it back. It was bad enough that Batsy was able to unnerve him; he refused to let his own body do the same.

Fighting back disgust, he used the nails of his right hand to reopen the wound.

* * *

_Damn that clown_.

Less than an hour, Batman reflected, as the elevator lowered itself into the cave. Less than an hour ago he'd brought the Joker breakfast, to find the psychopath sleeping on the mattress. In less than an hour, the man had woken up, reopened his wound, and written 'COME DOWN AND SEE ME' with his own blood on the wall. At least, that's what he assumed the Joker had written. He'd still been completing the word 'see' when Bruce had gone to don the Batsuit, and Batman thought his sanity would fare better if he did not think about all the other things the clown could be spelling.

The use of the term 'come down' made him uneasy, anyway. It could well be just an expression, but it could also be a subtle hint that the Joker had figured out he was in a cave. Or a basement, which was really what the cave amounted to. There was no way to ask without revealing his anxiety, and it wasn't as if the Joker would give a straight answer to begin with.

He opened the cell's door to find the Joker lounging on the mattress, wrapping the gauze back over the wound. The message, he noted, was 'COME DOWN AND SEE ME,' thankfully, the blood running and distorting the letters slightly. The words were still legible, however, even with red lines dripping down and the Joker's atrocious handwriting.

"Bats." The Joker grinned, rolling over onto his stomach. He pushed the chains under him away as best he could, propped himself up on his elbows. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this—"

"Cut the crap, Joker." Ignoring the clown's pouting and protests, he gestured to the blood on the wall. "What are you trying to accomplish?"

"Accomplish?" he repeated, wrinkling his nose. "I should think that would be obvious, Batsy. Or can you not read? Well, I guess if English isn't your, uh, first language, it's likely ya can't read it, either, so—"

"Why did you want me here to begin with?" He forced himself not to show outward signs of irritation, which took almost inhuman self control. The Joker would only feed off his anger, like some sort of emotional vampire.

"I can't eat my apple," he said, with a gesture to the unbitten fruit.

"What." He was too disgusted to raise his inflection at the end of the word, to make it sound like a question. _He cut his arm open and painted on the wall in blood just so he could complain about the food?_ He found that he didn't even have a response to that.

The Joker sighed, sat up. "Fe—" he paused, glaring down at his hands. He'd tried raising them to gesture, only to find them pinned to his sides by the chains. Scowling, he unwound himself, straightened the oversized shirt on his body as if it wasn't already wrinkled from being slept on. Bruce found that the sight of that monster in his clothing made bile rise in his throat.

"_Fetching _and distinc_tive _as these scars may be," the Joker continued as if he hadn't been interrupted, gesturing to his face, "they restrict movement, as scars, ya know, tend to do. I'm sure you've got your fair share," he added, licking his lips as his eyes scanned the Batsuit. "Case in point, I can't bite it. And I want it."

"So use your nails." He wasn't sure why he hadn't left yet. He seemed to be rooted to the spot by curiosity of just how much more mad and annoying the clown could become.

The Joker examined his nails, winced, and held a hand out. "Have ya _seen _the dirt under here? "

"As if you care."

"Even evil has standards, darling." He picked up the apple, held it out. "Bite it for me."

"What?"

"Bite. It. For. Me. I can get my teeth into it if there's already a chunk taken out." He pushed his hands farther forward, giggling at the glare he got in response. "What? It'll only be an indirect kiss on _my _part."

Batman searched his mind for anything to move the discussion to that would prevent him from beating the Joker to death, and latched onto the first thought to pop up. "How did you get out of the handcuffs?"

The Joker clicked his tongue against the inside of his cheek. "Really, Bats. There's no point in having a magic trick if you tell everybody how it's done."

He waited, holding in a smirk as the Joker shifted uncomfortably before he broke the silence.

"Maybe I'll tell ya if you bite the apple."

And maybe the sun would rise from the west tomorrow. "Maybe I'll just ask Jonathan Crane."

"Do you think I'm stupid?" His voice took on a hard edge. "Right, I'm going to reveal how I got out to the kid who's been turned into, like, a mockingbird. Or a crow, you can teach those to talk too, you know. Frankly, Batsy, I'm insulted that you think so little of me."

"You're scum."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, honey." He tugged idly on a cuff, a smirk growing on his face. "Ever heard of the Copenhagen interpretation?"

He knew the Joker was going to explain it whether or not he responded, so he kept silent. It was always the better option, partly because it made it harder for the clown to get under his skin, but mostly because it pissed the Joker off.

"It's quantum mechanics. See, once upon a time, scientists tried this experiment, right, where they fired an electron at a wall with two slits in it, trying to see which it would go through. Well, sometimes the electrons went through one slit, and sometimes they went through the other, but most inte_rest_ing of all, sometimes the electron would, somehow, go through, uh, both at once. So it existed in two places at the same time. Funny thing is, it would never go through both at once when the scientists were _looking_, then it would just pick one or the other."

"What's your point?"

"Impatient much?" The Joker sighed, as if he was pained by the interruption. "So that's where the Copenhagen interpretation comes from, an attempt to explain this madness. They eventually decided that particles exist as, uh, waves of probability, and only behave a certain way when you're watching 'em. The rest of the time, they sorta do everything at once. And since particles make up everything, that means everything is a wave of probability. So if you, say, hit your hand against a wall, there's nothing definite to keep it from phasing into the plaster. It's just really, really, really unlikely. A little less so if you're not looking, though."

"And?" He realized he'd been grinding his teeth and stopped.

"Well, the lights were out when I took the cuffs off. So I couldn't see 'em."

He was fairly sure he could actually feel his blood boiling in his veins. Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. "You expect me to believe that your body passed through the chains?"

The Joker nodded, with a smile that would induce fainting in the average citizen. "What are the odds, huh?"

He had a code against killing. He had a code against killing. That didn't make the idea of slamming the Joker's head against the wall until his brains spilled out on the floor any less tempting. The fact that the Joker was a spoiled brat—albeit it an incredibly dangerous one—acting out for attention in way that should have been pathetic did nothing to make him less infuriating. It wasn't even the drawn-out, pointless lie that had him this angry, really. It was the Joker's mere _existence _that provoked fury.

"Oh, just _hit me_," the Joker said, spreading his arms out in invitation. "It would make you feel better, and ya know it. You want it, I want it, just come on. It's not healthy to hold in your emotions like this, you know. You don't have to hold back 'cause we both know I can take it."

"No." He wasn't sure who he was talking to; the Joker or himself. He wouldn't go there. Hitting the Joker for no reason but to relieve tension would be taking a walk down a dangerous path, one he doubted he could get off of once he started his way down.

"Why _not_?" he protested, lowering his hands.

"Because you want it."

"So do you." The fact that he was right made Batman want to hit him harder than ever. "Think about it, Bats. Ya don't really want to turn me in. That's obvious. You _need _me."

"I don't—"

"Righ_t_ as I showed up, you and the GPD were closing in on the mob, weren'tcha? Take out the mob, wipe the city's crime rates by over half. You'd lose the corruption in the police forces too, and ya know what, Bats? That alone would raise the city to Metropolis levels of happy. They wouldn't _need _Batman anymore. I saved your po_sit_ion. You oughta be thanking me."

He felt the urge to defend himself, though he knew the Joker wouldn't care and he shouldn't be listening in the first place. "I became Batman to protect Gotham. I want them to come to the point where they don't—"

"And I'm sure you honestly believe that. But let's face it; Gotham might need Batman, but _you _need him more than anyone else in this city. Without Batman, you've got _nothing _to do, nothing to, uh, define yourself with. You'll never be able to give it up. At least I was able to keep it from being so you'd have nothing to do but run around apprehending loiterers. I _saved _you."

"You're a psychopathic killer."

"And that, my dear, is what's known as _ad hominem_. Attacking me as a person 'cause you don't have a response to the argument itself. Ya really ought to try being more honest with yourself. Trust me, just 'cause the face you'll see in the mirror if you do is, uh, atypical, that doesn't make it any less beautiful." He raised his hand, brushed it over his scars. His fingertips came away coated in red, the lipstick just discernable from the blood, a sight that was both repulsive and intriguing. "It's just a different kind of beauty. A more honest, chao_tic _one."

"Enough." He should leave. He knew that much. But he found himself unable, the Joker's words as intoxicating as they were perverse.

"You don't really want us super villains to recover when ya haul us back to the bin, do you? Hell, you don't even want us to stay contained. You might think you do, but look at yourself, Batsy." He paused, as if waiting for Batman to do so. "You're a monster, just the same as we are, and the only thing putting you on the other, uh, side of the fence is this tiny, little rule. You _crave _the fight every bit as badly as I do, deep down in some little secret place inside. You crave _me _every bit as badly as I crave you, lover, 'cause without me and the others, you'd have nothing. Nothing to hold you back, nothing to keep you from jumping to _my_ side of the fence to feed the monster inside. So go ahead, hit me. I want it, you want it, and it lets ya twist and bend your little rule as much as you want without quite making it _crack._"

He tried to block him out, but the Joker's voice was like a power drill, forcing itself inside, to not only be heard but _listened _to. "Shut up."

The Joker held out his hand, the apple in it. "Bite it, and I will."

And although every part of him that wasn't being drawn into this madness screamed at him not to do it, for some reason he couldn't explain, even to himself, he did.


	19. Conundrum

AN: Sorry about yesterday's lack of an update, my friends and I dressed up as Batman characters and kidnapped another of my friends to play Apples to Apples, which lasted until 2:40 AM or so. It was the best night in the history of nighttime. And one point my kidnapped friend, role playing as our Batman, put down the "Dead" card and our Joker just so happened to have the "Batman" card in her hand. It was fantastic.

Edit: This chapter's been very slightly altered, as it was brought to my attention that a previous line "Top of the morning to ye" is in fact an Irish greeting as opposed to Scottish (which I knew but somehow forget when writing, it seems) so the line has been changed.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

This was, the Joker reflected, as he watched the Batman bite into the apple, quite possibly the best moment of his young life. Well, maybe not _the _best—it was hard to top their first meeting, or anytime Batsy saved him from death—but it was up there. It was definitely up there. His entire body tensed when Bats actually took the apple from his hand, the world almost seeming to move in slow motion, as the Bat raised it to his mouth. His smirk faded into a genuine smile as he watched, wide enough that the skin around the scars burned. He didn't care. It would have been a good pain under any circumstance, but now it was downright blissful.

Shivers went down his spine as Batman took the bite, the crunch of the apple seeming loud enough to echo off the walls of the cell. While things had gone quiet—the Joker had stopped breathing for the moment and the only other sound he was aware of was his heart, currently hammering in his chest with all the force of freight train—he doubted it was really that loud. The exhilaration of the moment seemed to have heightened his perception, sound almost painfully loud, his vision suddenly brighter as if someone had turned on more lights, excitement making his body shake.

_This must be how Jonny sees the world, _he managed to reflect, though his brain had all but stopped functioning from joy. Which absolutely proved his suspicion that the scarecrow was nothing more than a whiny little girl. Jonny acted as if being hyper aware was some horrible torture, when it was actually more like switching from a black and white TV to high definition. If he was scared by that, he was hopeless. Maybe the Scarecrow should have been the one to ask the Wizard for courage, not the Lion.

Not that Jonny was important at the moment. Hell, as far as the Joker was concerned, the world outside of himself, the Batman, and the apple had ceased to exist. He was hardly even aware of the mattress beneath him anymore, which was a shame given that it had been comfortable, far more comfortable than the cots at Arkham, but he was willing to let it slide. Having a nice mattress might be a good thing, but taunting Batsy into getting his way? Priceless. He'd have sold what little of a soul he had to make this moment last forever. Or at least to get it on DVD, so he could watch it over and over and pause it at his favorite bits.

He was close enough to reach out and touch him. Bats hadn't moved back after taking the apple from him, and the chains would allow it. But while physical contact with Batman was very, very high on his list of Best Things Ever, he found himself rooted to the spot. His Bat was in a rather delicate emotional state right now, surely, and he didn't want to upset that balance, ruin the moment. So he made himself sit back and not take part in the spectacle before him. Which was a glorious spectacle indeed. He watched, as rapt with attention as a snake before a charmer, as the Batman finished biting, mouth closing over a sliver of apple. Bats really had beautiful lips.

The Joker was overcome with the urge to stick his tongue between them.

He doubted that would go over well, however. So he settled for licking his own as he watched Batman chew, slowly, before clearing his throat. "Didya know that the Greeks used apples to show love? A warrior would throw one at his beloved and if she caught it, they were for all, uh, intents and purposes, engaged."

Batman, chewing, didn't respond. The Joker did note that his eyes were darting from side to side, as if realizing what he'd done and trying to think of a way out of it. Not that there was an escape route, unless he could turn back time. And while Bats had the art of appearing and disappearing down to a science, the Joker doubted it was because he could control the space time continuum. He imagined Batsy travelling time in a police box and giggled. Bats had good and well backed himself into a corner this time. _That's right, darling, you've had the forbidden fruit. And I'm betting it tastes _far _better than you're willing to admit._

"Apples are thought to be symbols of sexuality by many cultures," he went on, innocent smile taking on a decidedly more malicious twist. "If not outright, uh, aphrodisiacs." The butterflies from yesterday had returned to his stomach, and he couldn't tell if they were from excitement or worry. On one hand, he was excited. He was overjoyed, honestly, that he'd twisted the Bat in this manner. This man with his morals and convictions and all sorts of other so very boring issues he couldn't seem to overcome was so easily unnerved by such tiny things. If he couldn't handle a few arguments about his motivations, how on Earth had he held up his position for this long without completely losing it? An impressive feat, to be certain. It made the Joker love him even more.

But on the other hand, he wasn't sure he _liked _the fact that he was able to twist Batsy. The thing that made Batman so wonderful was, in part, his incorruptibility. That wasn't all of it; the voice and the armor and the gorgeous physique that must lurk under that suit were also contributing factors, but the incorruptibility had always been the driving force. The Joker needed something to oppose, a yin to his yang. A car that always managed to speed just out of reach. Did he want to catch him, tear him down, break him to pieces and then be the one to kiss everything better and show his Batsy an unrestrained, entertaining way to live?

Yes. And also no.

Because, in a way, the constant tug-of-war was what made the fight worth having. Much as he hated monotony, the knowledge that he would never reform, and Bats would never lighten up made him feel secure, somehow. An island of stability in the sea of white noise that made up most of his mind. It gave him purpose, and without purpose he'd be no better than Jonny or Nigma or any of the other psychos running the streets. This wasn't to say that he found the struggle boring, or that he didn't want to break Batman. He wanted with all his heart to take the tightly wound machine that was the Bat and start ripping out cogs.

He just wasn't sure he'd like the aftermath.

He'd always hated the expression 'You can't have your cake and eat it too.' It made no sense. What was the point in a cake you couldn't eat? Unless you were trying to poison someone, maybe, but it would be eaten, regardless. It was an idiotic expression and while anyone who used it in his vicinity was asking for death, he couldn't help but find it oddly apt to describe this situation. Without a force to oppose, it was likely he'd lose his stability, and with it, his mind. And suppose he didn't like Broken Bats? Not to mention that without his silly little code, Batman would kill him, and while being killed by Batman would certainly be the way he'd choose to go, Broken Bats could turn out to be a total sadist and make it a bad death. One without makeup, or in total darkness, or something else horrible that would bring up the static.

He'd never given much thought to how he would die, but he knew he wanted it to be glorious. And not static-y.

To be honest, he had no idea what he wanted as far as Batsy was concerned. He wanted to break him; he didn't want to break him. He wanted him to love him; he wanted him to kill him. He wanted them to be opposing forces; he wanted to bring Batman to his side. He could go on with the comparisons, but this was getting a bit too Dickens for his tastes. He tried not to think when it came to Batman; only to do the things that popped into his head without stopping to consider them.

Never before had it occurred to him that this might be a bad idea.

The Joker forced himself to shrug off the tension building inside of him. He turned his attention to Bats again, widening the smirk that had begun to slip while he was in thought. The Batman was still chewing—either he was the world's slowest eater or Joker thought very quickly—but his eyes were no longer darting from side to side. His expression had become unreadable.

He wasn't sure if he liked that. The blank look could have been a sign that Batman was completely at a loss for how to respond, which would have amused the Joker. After all, if this situation was enough to make the Clown Prince of Crime, who had no neuroses or anxieties, feel uneasy, he could only imagine the number it was doing on Batsy. But suppose his face was blank because he wasn't affected?

No, that couldn't be it. Definitely not.

The Joker felt himself tensing again, and forced himself to relax once more. For God's sake, he was the one in control of the situation. _He _was the one who'd thrown Batman off guard, and not the other way around. Physically, he may be a captive, but mentally, he was far from it. So Bats had given in unexpectedly and threatened to wipe off his makeup before that. So what? He'd been through worse than that. Far worse. As far as he could guess, anyway; the clear pictures intermittent throughout the static had only on very rare occasions been happy pictures.

"So how does it tas_te_?" he asked, leaning back against the wall.

Batman swallowed, didn't answer.

The Joker rolled his eyes. "Real mature, honey. The silent treatment, I see. Ya didn't have to take a bite, you know. You could have left. Or ignored me. I fail to see how this is _my _fault. Don't treat me like crap 'cause you're mad at yourself, Batsy."

Still nothing. Bats glanced from the Joker to the apple in his hand, as if in deep contemplation. Probably he was mentally flogging himself for giving into the madman's demands. How very Bat-ish. How very boring.

"Fine, don't respond." He gave a loud, false huff, straightened up. "I don't need _you _for intellectual, uh, _stimulation,_ I've got other friends." He looked around the room for something else to talk to. He'd gotten a little too intimate with the sheets and mattress to speak to them now, he thought. Talking to people after you'd jacked off on top of them was more than a bit awkward. The door and chains pissed him off too much to speak to, and as for the toilet, no. Just no. He cast his gaze to the lighting panel on the ceiling, opaque glass obscuring the source of illumination behind it.

"Hello, Light Bulb!" He raised a hand and waved. Batman blinked, but did not otherwise respond.

_A bonnie gloaming to ye, Joker._

"Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait." That made no sense. Why would the light bulb be Scottish? Not to mention that it had spoken of entirely the wrong time of the day. "That's no good. Where do they make light bulbs, anyway?"

_I dinnae ken. Indonesia? _the light bulb offered. _Or China?_

"Not China." Chinese accents still strongly reminded him of that bitching, whimpering Lau idiot he'd taken down for the mob. "And I've never heard an Indonesian accent…I guess ya can be Scottish."

_Aye._

A Scottish light bulb. Interesting. Joker wondered if it was fluorescent or incandescent, and was about to inquire as such when the Batman stood and turned for the door.

"Ex_cuse _me." The Joker placed his hands on his hips. "Aren'tcha forgetting a little something?"

Batsy glanced down at the apple in his hand, and turned to regard the Joker with the slightest hint of a smirk on his face. "No."

"We had a deal," he protested, the grin on his face quickly flattening into a rigid, thin line.

"The deal was that you would stop talking if I bit the apple." There was more than a hint of a smirk on his face now. "You never said I had to give it back."

"You son of a bitch." Goddamn it, he'd _wanted _that apple. This wasn't fair. To the victor went the spoils, and he was clearly the victor. He'd manipulated the Batman, not the other way around. He'd unnerved the other, got him to bend to his will. He'd _won._ Batsy wasn't allowed to come up with clever ideas to slip out of situations unless the Joker wanted him to do so. It wasn't right. Besides, he really, really liked apples. "Give that back. Now."

He was aware that he sounded like a whining child, and it seemed Bats was as well, because he said nothing, only grinned a little wider, as he made his way to the door.

"You heartless—" The door opened, closed. "YOU—" He bit down on his tongue, tasting blood as he willed himself to be quiet. Bats hadn't done this just to be a dick. He'd done it to get a rise, hoping to piss the Joker off just because the clown had painted on the wall in blood and made him come in and tried tearing his mind to shreds. Honestly, some people. Well, it wasn't going to work. Unlike Batman, he was smart enough to get over things before he made a scene, instead of having to rely on cheap digs later on. He wasn't going to let this get to him; he wouldn't give the Bat that satisfaction.

Even if he had wanted that apple so very badly.

_Clatty auld claw baw._

_Shut up, Light Bulb._

* * *

Batman's good mood lasted for approximately three seconds after the cell door closed before dissolving completely. He stared down at the apple in his hand, shook his head. It didn't matter that he'd managed to turn things around; possibly even tricked the Joker into thinking he'd planned that from the start. It didn't matter that the encounter ended with the Joker shouting and disappointed. He'd allowed the maniac to get under his skin, bend him to his will, if only slightly. And that could not happen again. He could not let himself listen to anymore of this. They were only words, but the toll they took was just as bad as a fight, if not worse. He couldn't let himself be pulled into this again, or the consequences could be disastrous.

He glared down at the apple in his hand, the start of this whole mess. He didn't even like apples. The taste of the fruit lingered unpleasantly in his mouth and he reflected that, while it was too dangerous to give his captives utensils, he'd have to make sure food like that was cut before it was sent down. The extra work would be better than repeating this incident.

Now the question remained of what to do with the apple in his hand. He certainly wasn't going to finish it, and he didn't want to leave it lying around in the cave or the trash, prompting Alfred to ask questions. The latest experience in the Joker's cell was not one he cared to discuss. Not for a good long while, anyway.

* * *

For all his brilliance, Jonathan Crane was at an utter loss when he tried to determine just why the Batman had brought him an apple in between meals. Especially one with a bite taken out of it. If that had been an attempt to ensure him that it wasn't poisoned, it would have been far more effective for the Batman to bite it in front of him.

He asked Scarecrow for his opinions. Scarecrow had nothing to offer.

He sat there, regarding it for a good fifteen minutes before making any moves. It looked, felt, and smelled ordinary. That didn't mean he was going to try it. He told himself that he absolutely wasn't, under any circumstances, and he wouldn't have, had he not been hungry. Hunger was hard to ignore, when one was exceptionally aware of it.

He took the smallest bite possible, waited. When a good ten minutes had passed with no ill effects, he took a slightly larger bite. Then another. And another. He told himself this was to settle his stomach, and that if he wasn't hungry, he wouldn't have accepted it, no matter how good it tasted. Not that it was good. Scarecrow didn't argue on those points.

Scarecrow didn't speak up at all, in fact, until Jonathan reached the part of the apple with the bite taken out. _Jonathan?_ he asked, as his other half bit down.

_Yes?_

_We're assuming Batman was the one who bit this, aren't we?_

_Yes. Why?_

_So…isn't this an indirect kiss with him?_

Jonathan very nearly choked.

* * *

AN: Claw baw means wanker. Clatty is filthy. Gloaming is twilight.

Thanks to GreyLiliy for the indirect kiss idea. Time travel in a police box is a _Doctor Who _reference.

It would seem fate wanted me to update today. I hit a spot of writer's block and was going to go watch _Repo!_ only to have someone else request to borrow my DVD. Now I'll have to go listen to the songs on Youtube a few times to give me my Pavi Largo fix. No, I'm not sure why I'm attracted to the character of the face-stealing, murdering rapist. Then again, I'm attracted to the Joker and Jonathan Crane, so there you go.


	20. Contemplation

AN: Sorry the updates have been a bit sporadic as of late. For whatever reason, about half of my classes decided to do midterm-ish assignments after Spring Break. I don't know why.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

_I am not speaking to you ever again,_ Jonathan informed Scarecrow, as soon as he'd recovered the ability to breathe.

_It's not my fault you haven't managed the art of swallowing without inhaling._ He sounded slightly amused. Jonathan wondered what it said when even his other half was entertained by his suffering. He had a feeling it wasn't a good sign.

_You waited to say that until I was swallowing on purpose._ He glared at the half-eaten fruit in his hand, the apple white slowing discoloring from exposure to the air. His stomach was informing his brain that it was still hungry, and it didn't care whom the mouth would be indirectly kissing by eating the apple, it tasted good. His brain countered that while the stomach may be able to handle that knowledge, his mental health would not.

And his mental health really couldn't take much more stress, after the latest medication switch. If he ever got out of here, he was going to pay Arkham a visit and show them just how much he appreciated the drug change, using some drugs of his own. And maybe knives. He really didn't care for blades or guns and the like, but Scarecrow enjoyed them.

No knives, then. He wasn't in the mood to let Scarecrow have any happiness at the present.

_It's not my fault the Batman's making a pass at you._

_Oh, shut up. He'd never do that, and besides, it would be a pass at you as well, if he'd made it. Which he didn't. So don't act as if you're removed from this._

_But I am, Jonathan._ The amusement was more than slight now. Sometimes Jonathan really hated him. _He doesn't know I exist, remember?_

That was technically true. Scarecrow had never been brought up in his therapy sessions, besides the ones with Harley, and as things would turn out, she took notes in a haphazard pattern that only she—and the Joker—seemed able to make sense of. Even if the Bat had access to his therapy records—and Jonathan was sure he did—there would be no mention of Scarecrow. None of his therapists had ever realized he had a second aspect to his personality, despite the fact that Scarecrow would occasionally talk to them. Those sessions tended to be the ones that would end with sedation and loss of privileges.

Still. For a part of himself, Scarecrow could be more than a bit of an idiot. _He's around you as often as he's around me. More, actually, given that you're the one who does the fighting, and that's pretty much the only time we're around him._

_Right._ Scarecrow being an aspect of him and not a hallucination, Jonathan obviously couldn't see him—outside of dreams—but if Scarecrow was a separate entity, he imagined his other half would be smirking. He certainly sounded as if he was holding back giggles. _So the time you spent around him when the Joker was trying to kill you was a fight, then?_

_That's the exception that proves the rule_.

_And the time when you fired a nail gun into your hand? _Definitely giggling. And finding humor in Jonathan's suffering. His alter ego was a stupider, sluttier version of the Joker. Lovely.

_Beating me then almost certainly would have killed me. And he won't break that rule of his, contradictory as it is. I fail to see where you're going with this._

_I'm pointing out that he's spent time around you as well. Honestly, and you act like _I'm_ slow. In fact, all of the nonviolent time's been around you, now that I think about it, so if that kiss was directed to anyone—_

_It was _not _a kiss._ Jonathan resisted the urge to throw the apple against the opposite wall. Somehow, he doubted that would go over well. Not that he could be sure; he wasn't sure why he'd been given the apple in the first place, unless it was to unnerve him as much as possible. _It was…some sort of mind game._

_Mind game? What's he trying to do, make you fall for him so he can use you to make the Joker jealous?_

_Stop implying that I'm going to become involved with him._ He began biting what remained of his fingernails. Not much, at this point.

_I'm not implying that. Stop jumping to conclusions. I'm just saying that the Joker is clearly in love with the man. Or, whatever passes for love with that psycho._ The humor slipped out of his voice there, which was comforting. Much of an ass as he could be, he did care for Jonathan. Of course he did; he had to, given that they shared a body. Even so, it was a nice reminder that _someone _cared, and he hadn't been left all alone to rot and have his mind tampered with by a mad vigilante.

So, of course, Scarecrow had to ruin the moment by continuing. _So if the Batman wants to screw with him, what better way to do so than flaunting a relationship with his ex in front of him?_

_The Joker would never fall for that. _He wasn't going to bother addressing how ridiculous the idea was. Not again. _I hate the Batman, and he knows that._

_You hated him too. Twice. And look how both of those turned out._

_Oh, shut up. I seem to recall that you fell for him as well. Hard enough to make out with him on the floor of a bank lobby in full view of his men, while he was bleeding all over you._

_Hey, I was only involved for the sex. I didn't have any emotional ties._

Jonathan rolled his eyes as he set the apple on the floor. _You're such a liar. And a slut._

_That's not very nice, Jonathan._

He shrugged, pushed the apple as far away from him as he could get it without standing up. It made him uneasy. More uneasy than usual, anyway. _It's true._

_If I'm a slut, then so are you._

_Whatever. The Batman wouldn't do that, and you know it. He might physically torture people, but he's not one to play mind games. Not that I've ever seen._

_The Joker likes being beaten. Maybe he switched tactics._

_He did not. He's all about upholding his perverse idea of justice. He would never stoop so low as to taunt a man by sucking face with said man's ex—_The mental image that thought gave him removed his ability to think further for a moment, energy focused on not gagging.

_I wasn't serious, you know, _Scarecrow informed him, when he'd stopped dry heaving. _Remind me not to try lightening the mood anymore. It might just kill you next time._

_Quite possibly. _He straightened his glasses, frowning. _If that's your idea of lightening the mood, there's something terribly wrong with my sense of humor._

_Well, it's not as if there's a lot to work with here, Jonathan. Look around. Ten-by-ten cell with absolutely nothing of entertainment value in it. Just the light flickering and that stupid dripping._

_So you switch to tormenting me. That's good to know._

_Oh, you're too sensitive._

_If I am, then you are too._

_Just because we're the same person doesn't mean we share the same aspects. _Which completely contradicted his earlier comment regarding Jonathan being a slut, but whatever. He wondered if Scarecrow was aware that his arguments made no sense and just didn't care, or if his hypocrisy went right over his head. It seemed that, generally, intelligence was an aspect held by only Jonathan.

_Whatever. _It really wasn't worth getting into his idea of logic. Jonathan was confused and annoyed enough as it was. He wished he could move the apple somewhere out of sight, but in an empty cell there was no way to do that unless he wanted to shove it under the mattress, which would make him feel it whenever he tried to lie down. He shook his head, closed his eyes. Maybe his mind would stop racing enough to allow him to sleep. Unlikely, but possible.

_Jonathan?_

Or not. Annoyed, he kept his eyes closed, but responded. _What?_

_Whose side are you on anyway?_

He sighed. _Can't you just sleep?_

_I'm not tired._

_Well, I am._

_No, you're not. If it weren't for the chains you'd be pacing around the room._

_Not by choice. _He'd never been this restless in captivity before the drugs. Sitting still for any period of time this way was miserable, so he opted to sleep as often as he could. Unfortunately, the meds made that equally difficult. And Scarecrow wasn't helping either. He supposed he might as well answer, if that would help his other side to shut up. _What do you mean, whose side?_

_The clown or the bat?_

He opened his eyes, blinked. _For what?_

_For this, obviously. Do you want the Joker to accomplish whatever madness he came here for and escape with him, or let the Batman win and drag you back to Arkham?_

_A plague on both their houses._

_That doesn't count, Jonathan. You can't spend your life sitting on a fence. Or hanging from a pole, or whatever._

_Watch me. _It really wasn't fair. All he wanted was to sleep. Not even sleep so much as have his mind stop racing. If he had the chance to live his life over and fix his mistakes, he was beginning to think he'd have never studied fear in the first place, not if he'd known it would lead to madness like this.

_You can answer the question and I'll be quiet, or you can ignore me and I'll sit here asking over and over, or screaming nursery rhymes or something at top volume._

He tilted his head to one side, as if there was someone there to gape at. _Why nursery rhymes?_

_Why not?_

_Fine. I haven't thought about it._ He leaned back, angling his body so he didn't have to face the apple as he thought. It was horribly distracting. The Joker or the Batman…it was like choosing a method of execution, really. One might be faster or less painful than the other, but they both had the same miserable outcome.

They'd both beaten him, though the Joker far more severely. Both fed him his own poison, though the Batman had used the one that left lasting damage. They'd both tracked him down after he'd run away from Arkham, the Joker to kill him and the Batman to drag him back to that hellhole, which was almost as bad. And they'd both had the odd moment where they'd tried to be comforting, though he was sure both had been done to further some twisted agenda.

But there was no real contest, similarities aside. _The Joker._

_Why?_

_Because at least I have some idea of what goes on in his head. And I've found that people tend to do far worse things in the name of some virtue than they do for the sake of causing trouble. _He thought of his grandmother and shuddered. _Besides, the damage he did to my body healed, for the most part. Whereas what the Bat did will never go away. I'm glad the Batman intervened when the Joker wanted to kill me, but if I had to help one in this struggle? The Joker. Besides, he gave me a horse._

He wondered what the Batman had done with that horse; waited for Scarecrow to offer his theory as to Nightmare's whereabouts, or his own view on the issue. There was only silence in response. It seemed he'd been serious about being quiet. Jonathan lay down on the mattress, pulled the blankets tightly around himself. It seemed luck was finally on his side today, as after half an hour or so of racing thoughts, he was able to sleep.

* * *

AN: "A plague on both [your] houses" comes from _Romeo and Juliet._

The nursery rhymes bit is a reference to Jeph Loeb's Scarecrow, who speaks almost entirely in such rhymes.


	21. Memorization

AN: Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Damn the Joker and his cell phone.

There was nothing in this world that would make him happier than to never look at that clown again, leave him to waste in the cell. It would hardly be cruelty on his part; being in the cave was what the Joker had wanted in the first place. He'd still have to go in to feed him, he supposed, but a person could last forty days without food before dying, and three without water. Three Joker-free days, longer if the clown realized he could drink out of the toilet tank.

_I have a code_. It felt like—and very well could be—the thousandth time that day he'd thought that. It had become something akin to a Hail Mary for him, the only thing that kept him from losing it completely and slamming the Joker's head into the wall again. Hard enough to break the skull, this time. The code covered more than just killing, though that was the main tenet. It also didn't sit right with his beliefs to starve or dehydrate a man, even someone like the Joker, no matter how stress-relieving it would be. Still, the thought of three days without having to look at or speak to that bastard was a blissful idea.

Unfortunately, the issue of the twice-daily phone call prevented that. He couldn't leave the cell phone alone with the Joker, both because it would die—he was not about to let the Joker lay hands on any sort of machinery, even something as simple as a phone charger—and because without microphones in the cell, there would be no way to monitor whom the Joker was calling, and what he was saying. Batman gritted his teeth, wondered why he hadn't had microphones installed. Surely having to listen to the clown all day couldn't be worse than being in the room with him.

He remembered, suddenly, the Joker masturbating in front of the cameras yesterday. Then again, maybe microphones weren't the best idea.

He wondered why the Joker had chosen to make the calls twice a day. There was no real way of knowing that without knowing what the Joker's plan was, why he'd been heading to the Palisades in the first place. If he had been going to the Palisades; knowing the Joker, that could easily be a lie. But the clown had an infuriating habit of mixing his lies with just enough of the truth that it was dangerous to disregard them.

Whatever his reasoning behind the number of calls, he must be absolutely giddy at being visited by the Batman twice a day. For Bruce, it was beyond irritating, heading back in the middle of his patrols—which, as of late, consisted mostly of searching for clues around the payphones the Joker's men used—to deliver the phone. He'd been staying at home without issue so far, but eventually he'd be needed at Wayne Enterprises, and then he'd have to head back in the middle of the day to give the Joker the phone at noon. As if his life weren't hectic enough, he'd have to battle Gotham's midday traffic as well.

That or put Alfred in the Batsuit and have him bring the phone down, but Bruce doubted that would be convincing.

The phones the Joker had called so far were, as far as Batman could ascertain, completely random. Their locations were scattered throughout Gotham in no recognizable order. He'd originally thought that they'd been chosen based on lack of surveillance, but two of the calls had been made in areas easily viewed on security cameras for nearby buildings. The footage, as he hadn't been surprised to find, was completely unhelpful.

The Joker's men—surely acting on his orders—were intelligent enough to keep their faces obscured by hats, and enter and exit from an area that took them off camera before they could reveal too much about where they were headed or coming from. He couldn't be sure, from the poor quality of the surveillance footage, but it seemed they were wearing gloves, and even if they weren't, the phones were covered in various fingerprints, and the prints were all smeared and broken beyond use. None of the areas had offered any telltale footprints or other clues.

His only comfort was in the knowledge that at some point, the Joker would run out of numbers. And when that happened, he'd have to start repeating, at which point his men would be easy to find, as would the bombs. That day could not come soon enough.

He could hear the Joker's voice as he punched in the access code. Not loudly, just a faint murmur that indicated the clown was speaking in a normal tone of voice. So he'd started talking to himself again. Lovely. Bracing himself for this latest idiocy, he pushed open the door.

"Obviously." The Joker was reclining on his mattress, leaning back on his hands for support as he stared up at the ceiling light. He was licking at his lips, still somehow covered in paint, despite the constant rubbing from his tongue. Batman wondered how long it took to wash off, if the Joker walked around with faint red and black stains on his skin even when the makeup was gone.

It was bizarre to think that it came off at all. He'd seen him without it briefly, while patrolling Arkham, but he'd never stopped for a good look. The makeup seemed as much a part of him as the violence or the madness, and the Joker had responded to the threat of losing the paint as violently as if someone had threatened to tear off his skin.

"Of course it would be harder," the Joker went on. "That's the _point_, my, uh, not-so-illuminated friend. Think about it. If it takes more effort, people aren't going to eat as much. I dunno if you've noticed, but this country's got a bi_t _of an obesity issue."

He paused, tilted his head to the side as if considering another's words. It occurred to Batman that the Joker had yet to acknowledge him, which, for the clown, was unheard of. He never passed up a moment to get the Batman's attention. Perhaps this was some new scheme. That, or he'd been greatly angered over the loss of the apple.

Well, good. He'd certainly been unnerved by that encounter and he saw no reason why the Joker should get off with no ill effects.

"That's not what I'm sa_ying_." The last word came out sing-song, with a smack of the lips, in contrast to his previously serious tone. "They wouldn't starve anyway. I just so happen to think that if people slowed down and thought about what they were doing, it wouldn't be such an issue. 'Sides, so what if they starve? Isn't the Earth, uh, over_pop_ulated?"

He had no idea what the clown was rambling about, and he was perfectly fine not knowing. "Joker."

"Uses as _what_?" His attention was still focused on the light, without so much as a glance in Batman's direction. "Ya really wanna argue that point against _me_? You're not as bright as you look, my friend."

"Joker."

"Yeah, it'd hurt. But the little tines are _fragile._ They break off faster and ya can't do as much, I know from experience. Whereas as spoon's much tougher and it's dull, so you could—"

"_Joker._"

He looked away from the ceiling for the first time, blinking for a moment. "Bats!" He lifted his arms, nearly losing his balance for a moment, and spread them out as if expected a hug that certainly wasn't coming. His eyes flicked from Batman's cowl to the tray in his hands. "With lunch, I see. And…" He sighed, sudden change in posture and expression suggesting unbearable sadness. "Ya didn't bring back my apple."

"It's gone." Sitting half-eaten on Crane's floor, from what he'd seen before heading into the cave, but he wasn't about to say that. The last thing he needed was the Joker breaking out to kill the Scarecrow for stealing his spotlight or something equally ridiculous. Looking back, giving Crane the apple probably hadn't been the wisest of ideas. The man had looked bewildered and more than a little terrified when he'd handed it over. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what Crane's overly-medicated mind had made of it.

"Jerk." The Joker remained dejected for five seconds or so, before brightening again. "Hey, Batsy, you can help settle this. Which is better, a fork or a spoon?"

Batman stared at him. And to think he'd been disturbed by the idea of Crane's thoughts.

"Oh, c'mon, Bats. You've gotta have some opinion. Judging from your hos_pit_ality, you don't use, uh, either—" He glanced at the tray, lacking utensils as always. "But you've gotta have a preference. See, Glowy here," he went on, with a tilt of his head towards the light, "is arguing that spoons aren't necessary 'cause anything too thin to pick up with a fork can be drunk, and forks make it easy to pick up little stuff. I, however, think the difficulty with spoons a good thing, 'cause eating slower burns more calories with effort and helps people to, uh, realize that they've had enough. And now he's trying to say that a fork makes a better weapon, as if he's got any experience in the matter—"

He put the tray down, held out the phone. "Call."

The Joker scowled. "Have ya got a chronic inability to communication, or a chronic inability to have fun? 'Cause I honestly can't tell."

"Call."

The Joker stared at the phone as if he'd never seen one before, while Batman fell what remained of his patience begin to crack. "You took my apple."

"You only said I had to bite it. I thought you said you were a man of your word."

"Aren't _you _the one who said that my word only means what I want it to mean?"

That had been Edward Nigma, actually, but that was one issue on which the Batman shared his opinion. "Either call or I'll take you back to Arkham."

"Ex_cuse_ me for trying to start a conversation, Bats." He took the phone and flipped it open. The fingers of his other hand hovered over the buttons, though he didn't dial yet. "You don't treat Crane like that, do ya?" The Joker nodded towards the cell door, bloody, matted hair falling in his face. "'Cause that'll give him a heart attack after a while. That, or really piss Scarecrow off."

He wondered why the Joker was referring to Crane as if his criminal identity was another person, then recalled that the clown was psychotic. His actions needed no explanation, and besides, the chances of him giving a straight answer were so miniscule, they might as well not exist. "Call."

"I've got a theory about your, uh, vocabulary," the Joker said, beginning to dial. "You know those video games and such where you can only learn say, four moves at a time? I think the language part of your brain's like that, and that's why you repeat yourself so often."

"You—"

"Quiet, Mommy's on the phone." He held it up to his ear, listening. Batman took the opportunity to glance around the room. He'd searched for lock picks earlier in the morning, when the Joker had still be asleep, and found nothing. The mattress and sheets hadn't been concealing anything, and nor had the toilet. He'd seen enough of the Joker when the clown had changed out of the dress to know he wasn't burrowing anything into his skin, and he doubted the man could conceal one in his rectum. Lock picks may be thin, but they were long. Then again, he could be using makeshift ones using smaller materials.

He imagined just how uncomfortable conducting such a search would be and began to wish he'd let the Joker detonate the bombs.

Perhaps he wasn't using any sort of pick at all. It was possible to slide out of cuffs without breaking or dislocating anything, difficult though it was. Still, if that was the case it would almost certainly leave scrapes or bruises as evidence, and the Joker didn't seem too badly torn up around the wrists or ankles. No worse than the rest of his body, anyway, which was scarred or black and blue almost all over. He supposed that was a sign of abuse at Arkham and wished he could bring himself to care. Maybe if it had been someone else. But not the Joker. It was wrong, he knew, it was making things personal, but he couldn't care less what happened to the clown.

"Does it _depress _you?" the Joker asked, closing the phone with a loud clack that broke him out of his contemplation.

"What?" Startled, he answered without thinking about it, thankfully remembering to disguise his voice.

"The fact that you've got _no _idea where the bombs are. That you can't find any pattern in the phones I've chosen." He smirked, holding up a hand to silence Batman before he could so much as open his mouth.

"There isn't one, you know. You've got nothing, _noth_ing at all."

He knew he shouldn't respond, but knowing meant little when the bastard was right there pushing him on. "I don't need a pattern. I only need you to run out of phones."

The Joker shook his head, clucked his tongue. "Do ya know how many payphones there are in Gotham City, Batsy?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Five thousand, seven hundred and twenty-one. Twice a day? That's two thousand, eight hundred and sixty, and a half. So what, seven years?"

"You haven't memorized five thousand phone numbers."

"Five thousand, seven hundred and twenty-one," he corrected, with a wag of his finger. "And I don't _need _to. Seven hundred and thirty would give me a whole year of your _lovely _company. Maybe you'd learn how to talk in that time."

"You haven't memorized seven hundred phone numbers." It was ridiculous. The mind was capable of retaining far larger amounts of information than that, he knew, but surely not phone numbers. Those were just random numbers with no meaning attached. Why would the mind hold on to them?

"See, that's what I mean about saying the same thing over and over. And I could if I wanted. Just 'cause I'm impulsive, it doesn't mean I'm stupid." He crossed his arms. "Why can't ya believe that?"

"That's not possible unless you're a prodigy or a savant."

The Joker glared, straightening up as he uncrossed his arms. He cleared his throat and began to speak. "'But sirs, sirs, I _see _that it's wrong. It's wrong because it's against like society, it's wrong because every vech on earth has the right to live and be happy without being beaten and tolchocked and knifed. I've learned a lot, oh really I ha—'"

"What are you doing?" In addition to making no sense at all, the Joker seemed to have developed a Russian accent out of nowhere.

"_A Clockwork Orange. _Anthony Burgess. Chapter six, the fifth page, I think." The accent was gone.

He stared at him, vaguely remembering a movie by that title. "What's your point?"

"That I can so memorize things. Like entire books. Want me to begin at the beginning? 'Cause I totally could, if ya wanted. I can even translate the Nadsat."

He felt more than a little unnerved at that. A madman was bad enough, an intelligent one worse, but one with the ability to commit entire novels to memory? That suggest a brilliance he didn't want to comprehend. Assuming, of course, that the Joker wasn't lying. It was fully possible he only knew a bit of the book, or was making it up completely. Either way, he wasn't about to show his unease. "A novel is different from a string of numbers. It has substance behind it, meaning."

"I can do the first two hundred digits of pi, if you want."

"You canno—"

"Three point one four one five nine two six five three five eight nine seven nine three two three eight four six two six four three three eight three two seven nine five zero two eight eight four one nine seven one six nine—"

He was still reciting when Batman left the cell.

* * *

AN: Anthony Burgess's novel _A Clockwork Orange _is set in a dystopian future made with Russian, English, and American influences. It's about criminal nature and free will. Nadsat is the slang spoken by the main character, and nearly every word that comes out of his mouth is in Nadsat. It's somewhat confusing at first, but I think it becomes easy to understand pretty fast.

The digits Joker gives for pi are correct, according to the Internet. The number of Gotham City payphones comes from a site's estimate on the phones in Chicago.


	22. Limitations

AN: Sorry, I meant to update last night but the site wouldn't let me upload it. Also, this week is Humans vs. Zombies at my school, so the updates may be a bit delayed due to fighting hordes of the undead and all.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Two weeks.

Jonathan looked down at the prescription bottle in his hand. He looked away, looked back. Shook it slightly. Then, as if his actions could have made any difference whatsoever, he uncapped the bottle, slid the pills into his hand, and counted them, for the fifth time that day. Of course, the number hadn't changed. Not that he'd expected them to. Captivity may be uncomfortable, but it wasn't driving him mad. Not yet.

Not ever. He was above that. Though eventually, being stuck in a cell with no intellectual stimulation was going to affect him.

_Our conversations don't count as intellectual stimulation, Jonathan?_ Scarecrow asked. His voice sounded hurt in a way that was almost certainly fake.

_Not in the slightest. There's nothing intellectual or stimulating about your speculations on the Joker's sex life with the Batman._

_I only brought that up once._

_And thanks to you, I said it out loud in front of him! Do you have any idea how lucky we are that he didn't beat me to death for that?_

_I thought, personally, that he looked too embarrassed to think about beating anyone. He was probably too stunned by your _correct _guess to respond._

_Or too floored by _your_ stupidity. Anyway, that's not important. _He glanced at the pills, slid them back into the bottle and replaced the lid. There were only two weeks' worth of pills left, and he had no idea how long the Joker planned to keep them here. Unless he wanted to go over and ask.

He slid one arm under the blanket, so his actions were hidden from the camera, though he could hear the Batman and the Joker through the wall, indistinctly. It must be about noon. Well, wherever the Batman's location, security footage could be rewound, and he had no intention of letting the Bat in on the mistake he'd made with the cuffs. He tried flexing his wrist.

It didn't move much, due both to the wrapping and the pain, but it did move. And the pain was less than it had been the day before. Not enough that it was wise to go slipping out of the chains and walking around at the moment, but he could if he had to. Though he doubted the Joker would much care if he were to get into his cell and tell him they needed to get out in two weeks or he'd go mad. He would probably find it funny.

Besides, slipping out of his cell without the cover of darkness was likely to get him caught before he could have any meaningful discussion with the Joker. And obviously, it would expose his latest method of escape and as such should be saved for when it was the only option. And he wasn't quite sure on the new security code, not yet. He hoped that was a sign that the meds were finally settling in his system—ironically, just enough time for him to start running out—but he doubted it. His thoughts were still racing far too much, though that could be a side effect of confinement.

What was he supposed to do if he ran out of pills before the Joker got them out? Ask the Batman for more?

_Absolutely not. _He would rather go insane again than ask the Batman for help. He'd asked him for help before, yes, but only when he was un-medicated. His pride was really the only thing left at this point, and he refused to let that go. Even if it did mean going mad and trying to strangle himself with the chains or some such nonsense. He could have slapped himself for his stupidity at this point, anyway.

He hadn't taken nearly enough of the drugs with him when he'd broken out. It was better than the breakout where he hadn't taken any at all, yes, but that wasn't saying much. He should have taken more than the current prescription bottle. True, he hadn't been thinking too clearly at the time, due to hyper awareness and the stress of the breakout, but that was no excuse. He was a pscyhopharmacologist, after all. If anyone knew how badly he needed the drugs, it was him.

Even if they did suck. If he'd had more time, he probably would have stolen the drugs to get his old prescription back. If only the world could be just.

How was he supposed to approach that discussion anyway, on the off chance he lost all dignity and asked the Bat? 'Excuse me, Batman, I know you hate me and everything that I stand for, and I've done nothing but injure, damage, or cause you trouble for the entirety of our professional relationship, but I was wondering if you could do me a favor? You see, I'm running out of the pills that counteract the brain damage you gave me and I was wondering if you could be so kind as to go out of your way to help me get more of those before I go crazy. Because I'm so sure that you give a damn what my mental state is, as long as I'm contained and not tearing myself apart."

Oh yes, that would go over well. Only by well, he meant like a ton of bricks. Or several tons.

_You could let me do the talking, Jonathan._

_Oh, because you're _such _a tactful and eloquent speaker. Anyway, it's not going to happen._

_Fine. Go back to cutting yourself and hallucinating._

_We'll get out of here before that._ They had to. He refused to consider the alternative.

_You're putting your faith in the Joker, _Scarecrow pointed out. _You've got to know that's betting on a losing horse, right? I mean, you're always going on about how you're the smart one._

_The Joker wouldn't have brought me unless he had a reason. How much use to him can I be raving?_

_Spoken as if he knew how many pills you had when he ran into you. He's intuitive, Jonathan, but he doesn't have, like, X-ray vision. He has no way of knowing._

_He'll know when I tell him._

_So we're going to what, wait for the power to go out again, and sneak into his cell? Because the odds of that happening are lower than the odds of the Joker rewarding your faith, if that's even possible._

_The Joker got out of his chains too, genius. And he gets through the security doors at Arkham all the time. He doesn't do well in captivity, so it's only a matter of time before he breaks out and I can tell him._

_What makes you think that the Joker's going to stop to see you?_

_He brought me here for a reason, as I've said._

_He's the Joker, Jonathan. He changes his plans every five seconds or so. Knowing him, he's probably forgotten you're even here by now._

He gritted his teeth. _Shut up._

_I'm just saying._

_Shut. Up._

And for once in his life, he did.

* * *

His head hurt, and that bothered him.

The Joker resisted the temptation to rub his face, shifted on the mattress. The chains beneath him were digging into his skin, leaving an imprint on his legs, but that wasn't what made him uncomfortable, what had woke him up.

Nor was the pain, actually. He wasn't sure why he'd woken up, but the pain certainly wasn't severe enough to bring him out of sleep. Maybe it was the thirst. His throat felt dry. It wasn't painful yet, but it would be if he waited for too long. There was a sort of dull heat in his throat that he knew would turn to fire if it was left to its own devices. He needed a drink.

Too bad he'd finished the water hours ago. He wasn't sure how many hours ago, as he'd fallen asleep and didn't have the best sense of time when he was awake anyway, but he was sure it had been hours. The Bat hadn't woken him to make the midnight phone call yet, not that he remembered, so it hadn't been twelve hours. He wondered how long until midnight, when he could ask Batsy for a glass.

He wondered if Bats would say no, and what he'd do then.

He felt his gaze linger across the room to the toilet. No. He wasn't that thirsty.

Not yet, anyway.

He tried to distract himself from the thirst by focusing on the pain. He couldn't understand why it was bothering him. He was, after all, the Joker. The man who could have his head slammed into reinforced glass and shrug off semi-truck crashes without more than a moment of disorientation. If a pain wasn't good, he could ignore it without a second thought.

Until now, anyway. This stupid headache would not go away.

Well, if he wanted to be honest with himself, which he didn't, he'd admit that it wasn't a headache. The ache wasn't where it should be, inside his head. Which was a strange spot for it to be, anyway, the brain couldn't feel pain, so why should the head hurt? Instead, the ache was outside, on his skin. A bit lower than the skin, actually, but still not inside his skull. It was the cut, the scrape across the forehead from having Bats slam his head into the wall.

In hindsight, perhaps it hadn't been the best of ideas to go picking around at the wound. True, leaving bits of debris inside the cut wasn't healthy, but then, neither was the accumulated dirt and blood under his fingernails. It occurred to him that the wound going septic would not be a good thing. Not in the least.

Then again, it might not be an infection. Maybe it was just a coincidence, the ache and the thirst and the general feeling of crappiness would be there, abrasion or not. He looked up to Glowy, asked his opinion without saying a word. He didn't want to open his mouth unless he had to; that would lessen the moisture inside and make the thirst worse.

Glowy had nothing to say, not even an 'I dinnae ken.' Perhaps he was asleep with his eyes open. Well, not his eyes, the light made up his whole body. The Joker wondered where his eyes were. He still didn't know if the light bulb was fluorescent or incandescent. It didn't seem worth the energy to ask.

The door opened and the Batman entered. The Joker looked up, resisting the urge to rub at the wound, as if that would make it sting less. The last thing he needed was to give Batman a reason to wipe off the face paint. He shuddered at the thought.

Wordless, Batsy held out the phone and wordless, the Joker took it and dialed. He was shocked by the rasp to his voice when he spoke, which he tried to disguise the moment he felt the Bat's eyes on him. When he snapped the phone shut, the silence was deafening. The Batman extended his hand, and the Joker put the phone in it without letting go.

"I need water."

Wordless, the Bat took the phone and left.

_Damn it._

It really wasn't fair. True, he'd probably deprive Bats of water if the tables were turned, but his love was supposed to be better than that. It probably would have been funny had he not felt so much like shit. He needed to drink, and while he wasn't desperate now, he would be, soon, if he didn't get it.

He let his head droop to his hands, rubbing at the wound as if that could possibly help. All it did was reopen the scabbing there. Well, maybe he could fall asleep before the thirst got too bad. His body might be able to sleep off the infection, if he was infected. After all, he was made of stronger stuff than most. It wasn't too far out there.

He'd just laid down on the mattress when the door opened. The Batman stood in the doorway, in his hands a two-liter bottle. Full of water. Or maybe vodka, but the Joker doubted that.

He could have kissed him. Well, he could have kissed him at any time, but this would be a different kind of kiss.

He made himself stop when he'd downed a third of the bottle, savoring it so much that he barely noticed Batsy's eyes on him as he did.

* * *

AN: Sorry about the shortness of the chapter, I've still got a rather bad cold and a mission to go out on soon. Fighting the zombie menace and all.


	23. Water

AN: _Un Chien Andalou _is a surrealist French film. It opens with a woman getting a straight razor to the eye and just gets more bizarre from there. _Chariots of Fire _is an inspirational instrumental song used a lot in movies.

What the Joker says regarding concentration camps is true, unfortunately.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Water. Water was almost as good as light. Maybe better. No wonder people dumped the stuff on themselves to be closer to God. It was heaven on Earth, if heaven came in a wet, flavorless form. He could feel the stuff washing away the burn in his throat, the way the holy variety was meant to instantly wash away sin.

He wasn't sure if he'd ever been baptized. It wasn't an image that had ever popped up in the static, but he wasn't sure if those pictures were memories in the first place. A lot of them were like something out of _Un Chien Andalou_. On the rare occasions he thought about it, he often came to the conclusion that, whatever his past had been, it was probably for the best than he couldn't get the clear picture.

Other times, he thought it might be interesting to know. Right now, he didn't stop to ponder it, instead finally realizing that the Batman was still in the room. There was a clench in his stomach that had nothing to do with the water, and he stopped drinking, lowered the bottle and screwed the lid back on. About a third was gone. He could have easily finished the rest, but the thirst was sufficiently lessened for the moment and he needed to conserve it.

Plus, he didn't want Bats to know how badly he wanted it.

He'd shown enough weaknesses as it was over the period of confinement, both to Batsy and Jonny. Weaknesses he hadn't even known he'd had. This one, he was at least aware of, and he wasn't about to go broadcasting it to others. Especially if the thirst was caused by infection. He was not about to let Batman disinfect the wound. He'd rather his face fall off first.

Which, potentially, could be a pretty fantastic way to screw with people's minds. What could be more horrific than being terrorized by someone with no face, just exposed musculature? Try showing pictures of _that_ on the news; Gotham would be having nightmares for years. He'd miss the makeup, though. And he couldn't just go rubbing it into his tendons and such; that would lead to infection.

Probably. He ought to test that on Harvey Dent next time he ran into him and find out for sure. But it seemed a surefire way to die. He wanted his death to be more interesting than makeup in muscle tissue.

He sat the bottle down on the floor, admiring the way the light flickered through the water inside. It really was heaven, in a little plastic bottle. He looked up.

Bats was still there. Standing. Watching, like some kind of pervert. He felt the urge to make a joke about that, but for once it seemed that the Bat's menacing stare—which usually had all the menace of a box of corn flakes—was actually working. He had to be feverish, or something. He refused to believe he was this unnerved without outside influence. Maybe Batsy had taken a leaf out of Jonny's book and done something funny to the water.

"It's rude to stare, ya know. Though given your failure at conversation, I think you might just suck at, uh, etiquette in general."

Much to his discomfort, Batman did not get annoyed, at least not visibly. He remained watching. Scrutinizing. "What's wrong with you?"

"If I had a nickel for every time someone asked me that, I'd be not only rich, but as ripped as you from carrying all those tons of change around."

"You look horrible."

"Wow. I mean, honestly, Bats, _wow._ Were you raised by wolves or what? You don't _say _things like that to people. You just _don't. _That hurts. That really does." He lowered his head and sniffed, as if in tears. "I went to a lot of trouble with my appearance, and if I look, uh, horrible, that's _your _fault for locking me up and taking my dress." He ran his hands over the jeans on his legs. "Which, by the way, looked better on me than her."

Even that didn't push him over the edge. "You need to disinfect that."

"I'm a Jehovah's Witness, Batsy. I don't believe in medical treatment." He lay down on the mattress, in a casual pose. "Hence why I never take the pills at Arkham."

"That's only going to get worse." A gloved hand extended, finger pointing to the wound.

"Good." He licked his lips. "What's life without a little bit of adventure?"

"You're dehydrating—"

"And you care because?" He pointed a foot at the bottle on the floor. "Unless a severe drought started while I've been locked up, it can't be inconveniencing you too greatly to give me that."

"If you won't do something about it, I will."

"Are you threatening me, Bats?" His tongue ran over his lips again; he noted how dry they felt under the lipstick. Well, they were probably getting chapped from the constant touching, not dehydration. He'd only scraped his head a day ago; if it was infected, the disease couldn't be working that fast. His immune system was stronger than that, given all the filth he exposed it to on a daily basis. "'Cause I like that."

"You have until noon to decide."

"The hell's that supposed to mean?"

He was already out the door.

Well, if Bats thought the makeup was coming off, he had another thing coming. What, like a little thirst was going to keep him from fighting back? _You can lead a clown to makeup remover, but you can't make him wash it off. Or something. _Whatever was wrong with him, it appeared the part of his brain responsible for witty remarks was affected. He needed sleep. That would hopefully take care of this stupid septic wound problem.

His last thought before falling asleep was that the burn in his throat was starting to come back.

His first thought upon waking was that the burn had turned into a fire, and the fire had spread to his whole body.

To be more accurate, that had been his second thought, and the first thought had been a less eloquent _Aaaauuughhh God that hurts._ His third thought was that he needed water very, very badly. Like that guy from the Bible burning in hell who was begging for a single drop of water. Just like that, only the fires of hell had been replaced by an infected abrasion.

He sat up, quickly, and found himself lying back down, room seeming to tilt around him. _Sat up too fast, _he realized, once he could think again. He shivered; wondered why he was so cold when his body was covered in sweat. He couldn't wonder for too long or lie there feeling sorry for himself, though, as the thirst blazing in him took precedence over everything right now, including thoughts and nausea. He got up again, making sure to go slower this time. The room was still spinning, but now it was less Tilt-A-Whirl and more merry-go-round.

Looking upon the water bottle was like looking upon eternal salvation. He could have sworn he heard _Chariots of Fire_ playing as he reached out a shaking hand, closed it around at the bottle. He moved to take off the lid with such force that the plastic scraped into his hands, and raised it to his lips, reminded himself that he had to conserve what he had. One or two sips, three at the most.

Then the water hit his tongue and any thought of self-restraint was gone. It was bliss, refreshing, cool, soothing, delicious. It was everything he ever could have wanted in life and then some. It was Christmas and the Fourth of July rolled into one. It was—

Gone.

He held the bottle over his mouth, letting the few remaining drops fall in. _Did I actually just chug almost an entire two liter?_ Wasn't that physically impossible? Or was that a gallon of milk? Whatever. So much for conservation. At least the burn in his throat was gone. Everything else still felt like shit. The cut on his head felt as if it had been dipped in gasoline and set on fire. And he'd singed himself enough times to know that wasn't a hyperbole.

But the thirst had been the worst part. And for now, it had lessened. For now. He had no idea when it would be back. Or what he'd do then. He was reminded of the dehydration experiments in concentration camps; in which the Nazis tested to see how long people could survive drinking only salt water. The prisoners had gotten desperate enough to lick the floors after they were mopped for water; he thought he'd be desperate enough to try that if the thirst returned full force. Too bad the floor was dry.

He wished he knew what time it was. It couldn't be morning yet, unless Bats had decided to be a complete sadist and let him die of thirst. No, Batsy would be on his way down at some point, but he had no way of knowing when that would be. He could have been asleep for six hours, or one.

However long he'd been out, about an hour after waking, by his estimate, the thirst was on its way back at the toilet tank was starting to sound like a good option. A great option. Calling him over to drop whatever low standards of hygiene he had, like a siren.

_No. I'm above that. I'm not going to drink out of a toilet like a dog, even if I compare myself to a dog every other second._

Perhaps another ten minutes went by.

_Screw it. _He tried to stand, found his legs would not support him, and so began a slow, painful crawl to the toilet.

And then the door opened. He didn't even bother to turn around. "Water." He was stunned by the weakness of his voice, but didn't have time to reflect on it as he heard footsteps crossing the room. A bottle of water was set before him, and he pulled it open with the same force as the last, bringing it to his lips and chugging.

About three seconds later the stuff was forced away from him, more than a few drops spilling. The Joker could have killed Bats without a second thought, had he the strength. He was vaguely aware that Batman was saying something about how he couldn't drink that fast or he'd be sick, but he couldn't make himself focus, not with water in front of him that he was being kept from.

"_Give me that_." The combination of rage and thirst made it come out as a growl.

"Go slower."

"Fine." He found it back in his hands, forced himself to sip. The Batman grabbed hold of his other hand, pulled his sleeve back. He followed the motion with his eyes as he drank, gaze trailing from the cut wrist, up the bruised arm and to the elbow, where he caught sight of the syringe in the Bat's hand and jerked his arm away.

"What's that?"

"Antibiotic." He pulled the Joker's arm back into place, shoved the needle in. It could be penicillin, or battery acid, the Joker wouldn't have cared at that point. All he wanted was the water. The Batman could shoot him up with Windex for all he cared; if it took away the burn, he wouldn't mind. He drank and drank until he had to stop, because his body wouldn't hold anymore.

Then he put the water down, smacking his lips in satisfaction. From behind him, there was a dripping sound.

He turned to find the Bat sitting behind him, wringing out what appeared to be a washcloth over the bowl of water sitting on the tray he'd brought it. _Washcloth? Oh no…no no no…_fuck _no. _"Bats? You're _not_—"

"Either I am or you are."

"No." His pulse was racing, even more than it had been from the fever. He was _still _feverish, still way too sick to put up a fight. But he couldn't let this happen, no matter how weak he was. He couldn't. "_No_. I'll let the bombs go off if you so much as—"

"You or me. Pick."

"You said I had until noon, Batsy."

"That was before you got worse. If you don't take care of that, you'll _die_."

He pushed himself as far away from the Bat as the chains would go. "Then I guess you better pick out a coffin. I'd prefer it if the tombstone says—"

"I'm giving you one more chance to do it yourself." His voice was like iron, in contrast to the Joker's rasping, broken one. He could hold him down and take the paint off, and the clown knew it. But he couldn't surrender. He couldn't give this up. The makeup was the thing that made him matter, and to be seen without it…

"_Fuck you._ No."

"Fine."

And before he could even raise his hands in defense, the Batman was upon him. He heard the water bottle knock over, saw as he was shoved down that it was lying sideways on the concrete, contents spilling out.

* * *

_Jonathan?_

_What?_ Not that he was going to admit it, but he was grateful to hear the Scarecrow's voice. His other side had all but stopped talking since noon yesterday, and he was going mad with nothing but the dripping to keep him company. God, how he hated water. If that was water.

_You know that book you read?_

He rolled his eyes. _I've read many books. Which one?_

_That one. 'I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings'?_

_What it about it? _he asked, brows knitting in confusion. Of all the books he'd read, that didn't seem to be Scarecrow's type of story at all.

_I don't._

_Don't what?_

_Know why. It's about finding happiness in captivity, right, that title? I'm not finding happiness here. Captivity sucks._

Well, thank you, Captain Obvious. He rolled his eyes again. _I know. What do you want me to do about it?_

_I don't expect you to do anything. I'm just saying, I wish something would happen._

_Please don't say that, you never know what's going to—_

His thoughts were cut short by a scream.

Jonathan Crane had heard many screams, throughout both his research and his time as an outlaw, and this was definitely one of the most bloodcurdling. It was so full of emotion, anger and sadness and panic along with several others, that it hardly sounded human. It certainly didn't sound like the Joker, and as such it took him several minutes to realize that was whom it came from.

_Jesus Christ, the Batman's killing him. _It was stupid. Beyond stupid, absolutely absurd. And yet, he could not think of any other reason for the Joker to scream like that. The man _loved _pain; something that made him scream like that must be unimaginably bad. Besides, he'd always known the Bat's grasp of reality was hardly rock solid. He supposed he'd finally gone over the edge.

He found himself tearing at the gauze on his wrists, ignoring the pain as he loosened the padding and began to slip his wrists free. It hurt like hell and the hurt was going to get worse if he went to the Joker's aid, he knew that. But the Joker, horrible as it was, was his only hope, so he had no choice.

_I hope you're happy, _he told the Scarecrow, as one hand got free. _And I hope your little adventure doesn't kill us._

* * *

"Be quiet."

The Joker was feverish, weakened, dehydrated, and currently pinned down, both by the chains and the fact that Batman was sitting on top of him, pinning his arms down to his side. One hand was wound through his hair, holding his head in place, and none of that was stopping him from thrashing around like a spooked horse. The washcloth, in the rare instances when it could touch his face, was doing little to remove the blood and paint. At most the water made the makeup a more translucent, runny mess. And the Joker's screaming wasn't making things any easier.

"Calm down." His words had absolutely no effect. He wasn't sure the Joker could hear him over the sounds he was making. "I'm not going to hurt you." He brought the cloth down again; the Joker tried to bite his fingers. "Stop it."

This was getting them nowhere; but he kept it up. As long as the cloth kept moving, the Joker would keep struggling, and in his condition he could only go for so long before he exhausted himself.

So long turned out to be about twenty minutes. The Joker stopped screaming after about fifteen, the sounds having diminished from shrieks to hoarse moans. It wasn't until twenty minutes that the thrashing became weak enough for him to make any progress in the process of wiping the paint away. His weak attempts at movement were easy enough to subdue, and after a few more minutes, the Joker stopped fighting completely. He was either too tired to go on or saving up his energy for another attack, and either way, Batman continued. It was slow going, and at first turned the water a dingy brown more than it cleaned, but as time went by, it started to come off.

Without the coating of blood and makeup, the wound looked painful, the skin around it red and raised up around the abrasion. There was a small amount of pus coming through the scabbing, and a rotten, if not overpowering, smell. He scrubbed the rest of the Joker's face clean before trying to disinfect the area, to see how far the damage spread. The Joker begin struggling again as the cloth moved away from the wound; odd that the idea of losing the makeup affected him more than the pain of the infected spot being washed. His movements were still weak enough to be subdued.

It wasn't until he'd wiped the wound with alcohol and covered it with bandages that he really looked at the struggling creature beneath him. It was staggering. He didn't know what he'd expected the Joker to look like up close without the makeup, but he hadn't expected this.

He looked young. His Arkham files speculated that he was between twenty-five and thirty, but Batman had never realized his youth until it was staring him in the face. His eyebrows were blond, and his skin pale, aside from the dark scar tissue slashing through his cheeks and the lower lip, a scar that was harder to notice when the makeup was on. There were freckles doted across his face and his cheeks were flushed, from the fever and struggle, which made it look as if he was blushing. Maybe he was.

It was the eyes that floored him the most, however. They'd always been brown, though the eye paint had made them look darker. It wasn't the color that was surprising, but the _look_. He looked angry, but also afraid, as he had the other day. Batman should be used to it by now, but he wasn't. Not with the makeup off. He'd never looked so vulnerable before, so _human._

He had no idea how to respond to this. He'd never thought of the Joker as a man before. He'd always known he must be, but it'd been easier to overlook when the clown had been terrorizing his city in makeup. Seeing him frightened and struggling with no barriers between them was quite a different experience. It made him uneasy, as though he was the one uncovered. The Joker's reaction made it quite clear that this was something deep and private and that, in the Joker's mind, by taking the paint away, Batman had crossed a line.

There was also an odd sense of…well, it wasn't pity. It wasn't even empathy, but it was something. And whatever that something was, it threw him even more off balance. He couldn't afford to feel for the Joker, but looking down at his suddenly exposed enemy, he couldn't help it. _What happened?_ He looked so normal, aside from the scars and his emotional state. _What could happen to turn someone into this?_

The Joker moved his gaze to meet Batman's eyes, and the action seemed to restore a small bit of his usual attitude. His expression twisted in anger, mouth twitching but not managing to form his standard smirk. "I call sexual harassment, Bats. If ya get off me right now, I might not report this to the Commissioner when I see him next."

He shrugged it off. It was unrealistic to expect the Joker to change because of something like his makeup—or at all, considering the person in question—much as he could hope. He remained transfixed, eyes examining the Joker's face as he wondering how little bit of paint made such a difference.

"_What_?" The Joker demanded, trying to force Batman off. It had no effect, and the clown began shaking with anger.

"You look…" He wasn't sure how to phrase it, let alone why he was answering. "You look younger without your makeup."

"Yeah?" He shifted again, biting his lower lip. It was bizarre, seeing the Joker's standard expression of rage on his naked, almost normal face. But then, this wasn't exactly his standard expression. It was mixed with something else he had yet to identify.

"Yeah?" the Joker repeated, voice shaking. "Well, you look younger without your mask, _Bruce_."


	24. Human

AN: Not my best day. Still sick, and I just got some really horrible news. Which reminds me why I like writing so much; it's a good distraction.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Inside the gloves, his hands went numb pinning the Joker's shoulders. The temperature in the room seemed to have dropped, and Batman had to fight not to shiver. He was unable, however, to keep the blood from draining out of his face, reduced to hoping that the Joker wouldn't notice. The man's smirk—looking oddly foreign without the lipstick to accentuate it—widened, and it felt as if Batman's heart had leapt up into his throat. And also stopped beating for a moment.

He forced himself to keep from reacting any further, despite the questions whirling like a cyclone through his head. _How can he know that? Is he bluffing? He can't know, I've never given anyone the opportunity to—but if he does—he was headed to the Palisades. He knew. Shit._ "What are you talking about?" His voice came out even harsher than usual, harsh enough that it was painful, but it didn't shake, and that was something.

"Oh, I think you know exactly what I'm talking about, _Brucey_." His tongue darted out to touch the scars, and if the tightening of the hands on his shoulders bothered him in the least, he didn't let it show. To the contrary, his voice was almost a purr. "You take my face, I take yours. What goes around comes around."

_Goddamn it._ Any safety his playboy persona had generated was lost now, and Alfred's safety had been compromised along with his. The Joker could have told his men, leaving Wayne Manor wide open for attack. And though he doubted that—the Joker wasn't one to tell others what was going on in his head—having the Clown Prince of Crime alone know was equally awful. The amount of destruction the man could cause on his own was still catastrophic. "I have no idea what you're trying to say."

"Oh, don't be so pre_dict_able, Batsy. I was hoping we could skip all the 'No, I'm not Bruce Wayne, the Prince of Gotham' crap and cut to the chase." His eyes sparkled. It couldn't be clearer that he found this hysterical, and Batman wanted to break his face for that. "Aren'tcha curious about how I found out?"

"You think I'm _Bruce Wayne_," he repeated, filling his voice with scorn and amusement.

"If you weren't, you wouldn't have gone white as Mary's little lamb, now would ya?"

"You're delusional."

"And you're Bruce Wayne. And we're in your little, uh, Batcave."

_How does he know that?_ Losing the makeup may have made him _look _more human, but he'd never acted less normal. It was unnatural, how much he knew. Unless it was a bluff, and he had to believe that it was a bluff, had to try and keep calm. "Let me get this straight. You deduced all this from sitting a cell for a few days?"

If the Joker was the slightest bit unnerved by Batman's sarcastic, disbelieving tone, he gave no sign of it. "Hardly. I've known about you for _months_. Two, anyway."

"I'm sure. You've had it figured out for that long without making any move on Bruce Wayne? Self-restraint isn't something you're known for."

"May eighth."

He blinked. "What?"

"May eighth. That's when I figured you out." The Joker's smirked faded a bit, eyes darting around as though this was not a happy memory. "If ya don't believe me, check the Arkham files, 'cause I _know _you've got access to them. That's the day they had to sedate me to keep me from breaking my skull on the walls of the cell."

"Why?" Despite himself, he was genuinely curious. Assuming that the Joker had figured it out on the date he'd given, it didn't make sense for him to have waited until July to head to the Palisades. Nor did such a violent reaction to the truth fit, given how nonchalantly he could speak of the Batman's identity now.

"Because I didn't _want_ to know." He'd stopped smiling now, gaze leaving Batman's. He seemed to be lost in the memory. "It's not like I sat down and _tried _to solve the not-so-great mystery, it just _happened._ I had group therapy that day, and you'd just brought, uh, Nigma back in the week before, right? And he was still pissed about it and going on about the injustice of some 'genius like him being apprehended by a rich bastard playing with his toys.' That's when I realized that you had to be rich. I'd never really thought about it before, I mean, I _knew _that you had to be, to have all the crap you do, but I'd never thought about it. And then, entirely against my will, everything started to fall into place.

"'Cause after I thought about that, I also realized that to do the things you do, you'd have to be young, which most of Gotham's, uh, elite aren't. And brown-eyed, and over six foot, and so on. Until by process of elimination, Bruce Wayne," his mouth contorted on the word, "was the only one left. Which, believe me, I thought _had _to be wrong. Because my Bat is not stupid little playboy, even if that is just an act for the presses. Batman is better than _that._" He sounded honestly disappointed, on top of his anger. "And that's when I remembered that Dawes bitch."

Batman's fingers dug so deeply into the Joker's shoulders that he could almost feel bone. Usually, that sort of thing turned the clown on, but now he had no response, be it pleasure or pain. He was still deep in recollection, frowning. "I didn't want to remember her, fun as she is to bring up to piss youoff. But I couldn't help it. She was there, at your fundraiser. The one I never saw _you _at. 'Cause you were off changing into your armor while I was terrorizing your guests. And to think I'd thought Bruce Wayne was a coward."

_Shit. _He'd always known that his identity wasn't that difficult to figure out, but the playboy act had always been convincing until now. And no one besides the Joker seemed to have put in the effort. At least, not to his knowledge. "Bruce Wayne was hiding in—"

"A panic room? Yeah, I've heard that version. Doesn't change the truth. Anyway, that's when I knew for sure, and that's when I tried to fracture my skull."

"Why?"

"Because I _didn't want to know._" He focused on Batman for the first time since beginning the story. "Think about it. I know you're not as dumb as the person you pretend to be."

"I'm not—"

"Imagine if _your _idol, your greatest rival, the very thing you based your existence on in the first place, turned out to be _ordinary._" Underneath Batman, he shuddered. "Or that some treasured memory you've had all your life was only a dream. It's not…not…" He shook his head, unable to find the words. "Not _fair_, Batsy. It's not right. And I didn't want to know. I thought, maybe if I could do enough damage, I could beat the idea out of my mind. All I got was tied down and drugged, and when I woke up, I _still_ knew. It made me throw up. That, or the drugs did. I really don't know."

His eyes burned into Batman's, accusing. "You're supposed to be _better _than that. An incorruptible symbol, not some rich kid who took up crime fighting to deal with his angst over his mommy and daddy getting shot."

"I am _not _Bruce Wayne." He heard the break in his voice and cursed himself for it.

The Joker sighed. "Enough, Bruce. I know it, you know it, and for the life of me, now that I've figured it out, I can't see how the whole city doesn't know it."

"You're—"

"Crazy?" For a moment, the glitter was back in his eyes. "If I was wrong, ya know, you wouldn't be wasting all this time trying to convince me of it. You'd laugh in my face and walk off."

"I—" Damn it, he had him again. "I don't want you attacking the man to act out some—"

"Right. I'm sure you're concerned about Bruce Wayne with his panic rooms and his millions of dollars devoted to security. Though, I'm confident I can get through them. Hence, heading to the Palisades and all."

"Why would you go to Wayne Manor, then? If it's Batman you want and not Bruce Wayne?"

"To see." The Joker shifted beneath him. "To _pretend_, I don't know. At first I just wanted to block it out, but, uh, the more I tried to, the more I thought about. So I had to go there. To see what you're _really _like, underneath your act. So I'll know you're still my Bat. Someone who actually believes all this justice crap, instead of using it as a cover to work out his, uh, post traumatic stress disorder over his parents."

He wanted Batman to be the real identity and not Bruce? He thought back to his conversation with Rachel, after Wayne Manor had burned down, about his true mask, and almost smiled in spite of himself. Had the Joker not been a heartless monster and the one responsible for her death, they might have gotten along. "You want to pretend that there's not a person under the mask?" he asked, tone level. Arguing more about his identity would only prove the Joker's point. "That's insane."

"It's no_t_," the Joker snapped, shifting again. "Why else would you wear a mask? It's to make yourself more than an ordinary, corruptible, killable person."

"That doesn't mean there's no one underneath." He looked over the Joker's bandaged but otherwise uncovered face, noted the way the man's face reddened as he did. "Is that why you're afraid to be seen without your makeup? Because you want to pretend that you're not a person?"

"I'm not _afraid._" He spat the word out. "I just don't like being pinned down by big, scary men and forcibly touched. Look, I'm sure you're sexually repressed 'cause of the whole, uh, mommy and daddy issues thing, but that's no reason to take it out on a defenseless clown." He paused, sucking on the scars before grinning. "Ya know, I _thought _about going to their graves instead of the Palisades? See how you would have responded if I'd dug up your parents to have, I don't know, a tea party or somethi—"

He knew it was playing straight into the Joker's hands and proving his identity as Bruce Wayne, but that didn't keep him from punching him, and it didn't make watching his nose gush blood any less satisfying.

* * *

The screams had stopped.

Jonathan quit struggling with the last cuff, hands moving away from his bleeding ankle as he considered his options. The Joker had always been able to hold his own in a struggle, and the screaming could have stopped because whatever action that was causing it had ceased. For all he knew, the Clown Prince of Crime had the situation under control.

_He's fine. Forget it and slide the cuffs back on before the Batman heads over and realizes what you're doing. _Ironically, despite his desire for excitement, Scarecrow didn't seem thrilled at the thought of coming to the clown's aid. Jonathan had decided this was because of both his hatred for the Joker and desire to avoid the Batman's wrath. Which wasn't something he wanted to face himself. Still…

He'd never heard the Joker sound like that. He'd never heard the Joker sound _close _to anything like that. And he'd spent enough time around terrified people to know the difference between a false scream and a real one. The Joker had been _horrified,_ and anything that could bring up that level of fear and anger in the Joker was something that just might be strong enough to break him.

Besides, the silence wasn't necessarily a good indicator. The Joker could be unconscious, or too injured to scream, or have lost his voice. Or dead. It was a disturbing thought; the Joker never seemed to get hurt or sick, to the point that he almost seemed inhuman. But he wasn't.

_Look, Jonathan, if he's dead, there's nothing we can do about it. And if there's something going on that he can't handle, you'll be useless. I'm looking out for your best interests here. Look at yourself; you're already injured._

That was true. Aside from the pain and stiffness of his still-healing joints, his skin was now scraped and bleeding from the act of sliding off the cuffs. They were looser without the gauze, but not by a great amount. The swelling hadn't gone down completely, either. The cuff remaining around his ankle was still refusing to come off, and so far his efforts to remove it had only succeeded in gouging the metal into his skin. Even with the element of surprise, his presence would most likely be nothing but a hinderance.

Even so, he couldn't just leave the Joker alone to face whatever terror was menacing him. As stupid as it was on his part, he still cared for the man, and besides, the Joker was his ticket out of here. After all the clown had put him through, he still was more trustworthy than the Batman.

He resumed his attempt to slide the cuff off, ignoring the pain. Perhaps two minutes later, the screaming started up again. This time it sounded less tortured, almost like laughter, but it still made Jonathan hasten his speed.

* * *

Somewhere amidst all the punching, throwing, and beating he was doing, he knew that the Joker was enjoying every minute.

And that knowledge only made him hit harder.

He felt a resistance as he hauled the Joker up and tried slamming him into the nearest wall, a resistance that took a huge amount of force to overcome. There was a sound from behind him—the Joker screamed with actual pain as he heard it—that he ignored until he'd slammed the Joker against the wall, and it wasn't until he turned around that he realized what it had been. The resistance had been from the chains, and he'd actually managed to pull the eye screws holding them in place out of the wall.

He hadn't even known that was possible.

No wonder the Joker had screamed. It was amazing that his limbs hadn't been torn out of the sockets by that. There was blood on his wrists and ankles, dripping down onto the floor of the cell. For a moment he felt guilt, and then the Joker was laughing again and the guilt was overcome by rage.

He slammed the Joker against the wall again, the clown's head hitting the cement and leaving a bloody mark. He was bleeding all over, red dripping from his nose, mouth, and under the bandages, but he kept laughing and Batman could not get past that, hitting harder and harder each time he heard the sound. There was an electronic click from somewhere behind him that he ignored, pummeling the Joker over and over.

"Hey, you! Get your damn hands off him!"

_That _got him to turn, just in time to see Jonathan Crane dive towards him in a move that could have been called a tackle by a generous person or a trip, by an honest one. The three of them went crashing to the floor, the Kevlar cushioning the worst of the blow as Crane sat up on top of him, one hand closing around one of the Bat ears for support as the other threw punch after punch, surprisingly effective considering the man's size.

His own hands closed around Crane's wrists, stopping the punches. He tried to break the man's grip on the cowl but he was holding on with all that he had, still trying to hit, and Batman's position gave him little leverage.

Over Crane's shoulder, he watched as the Joker sat up, assessed the situation, and glared. "Jonny!" Receiving no answer, he wrapped his arms around his friend's waist and pulled, hard. "Get off of my Bat!"

Crane slid back, the cowl coming with him. Batman let go of his wrists instantly, reaching for the cowl, but the Joker pulled too quickly and it was off before he could grab hold of it, exposing him. He saw Crane's eyes widen at the cowl in his hand and turn toward him, and he threw his arms up to cover his face, hoping he hadn't been seen.

For a moment there was silence.

"Bruce Wayne?" Crane sounded shaky, but sure on that point.

_Fuck._ He lowered his arms just enough to look at his captive. Crane was staring, head shaking slightly as if in disbelief.

"You…you're—"

His words were abruptly cut short when the Joker grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head into the wall.

* * *

AN: "Hey, you! Get your damn hands off [her]!" is a line in _Back to the Future_. I'm really not sure why I put it there; I imagined it during the envisioning of this scene and it just would not leave.

For those wondering why the cowl didn't electrocute Jonathan, I don't think it lets out shocks at all contact. 4ofCups had the idea that the shocks would be based on blood pressure, only going off if Batman appeared to be unconscious or highly agitated, and that's the idea I go with. As he was caught off guard, I don't think his blood pressure had the chance to get that high before the hood was off.


	25. Just a Dream

AN: Thanks to everyone for the well-wishes! Sorry for the delay in the review, school, sickness, and fighting zombies got in the way. Luckily I'm not sick anymore, and Humans vs. Zombies will be over tomorrow, I'm not exactly sure.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

The Joker could feel the force of Jonny's head against the wall, the contact enough to send impact reverberating up his arms. The Joker noted that there was blood on the wall—finally, a splash of color beyond the sheets—but he was inclined to believe that it had come from his injuries, not Jonny's. There was a _lot_ of blood, most of it higher than Jonny's head, and the cuffs had cut very deep into his skin before Bats had managed to pull the chains out of the wall.

That had really hurt. Badly enough that it went from being a good pain back to being something agonizing, and that never happened. Not even when the semi truck had flipped with him inside. None of that mattered now, though. He'd have to talk to Batsy about establishing a safe word later, but for the moment, his top priority was to keep Jonny from fucking things up any more than he already had.

His friend had slumped forward, but he was holding himself up, somewhat, which meant he was still conscious. The Joker pulled him back up, slammed him against the cement again. There was blood this time, definitely from Jonny, but there wasn't a lot of it. He doubted scarecrows had much blood to begin with. It would make the straw rot. Though, a lot had come out on Halloween, when he beat him senseless in the parking lot. Well, he hadn't heard anything crack this time, so the blood was probably caused by friction against the wall, like his own bandaged wound.

Whatever damage he'd done, it caused Jonny to collapse completely. The Joker stood, picking Jonny up as he went. He turned, nearly tripped on one of his chains, which had somehow wound itself around his legs during the struggle, regained his balance, and half-ran for the door. He didn't know how long Jonny would be out, and he didn't want to give him the opportunity to wake up, not while they were still in this cell. He paused at the connecting door, halted by the realization that he didn't know the security code.

"What are you doing?"

He turned. "Sa—" The word died on his lips as he realized he wasn't talking to Batman.

Oh, the Batsuit was there, all right. And the cape. And they fit the right way on that body, exactly the gorgeous intimidating physique that the Bat had. Likewise, the voice; that raspy, barely coherent growl that never failed to send shivers down his spine. But the mask was off, and without that, there was no Batman. Just Bruce Wayne, with his hair slightly mussed and big black circles painted around his eyes, like a panda. It should have been funny.

It wasn't. It felt a lot like being kicked in the stomach. Seeing Bruce Wayne masquerading as his Bat made something inside him twist. It was like winding up a broken music box; the sound that came out was recognizable as a song, somewhat, but it had become so distorted that it sounded _wrong_. And disturbing. He felt dizzy, though that could be from blood loss. The cuts from the restraints weren't gushing anymore, but the blood hadn't stopped flowing. "Christ," he managed, which made the situation all the more wrong. He was the _Joker._ He was never at a loss for words. "Don't show me _that_."

Bruce Wayne stared at him with a look that made him want to punch the stupid playboy more than a little bit. Then his brain seemed to start working and he lifted the mask in his hand, sliding it back on. Thank God.

"Saving your ass," he continued, deciding that that unpleasant little moment had _not _happened, and nothing could convince him otherwise. "Open the door."

"Wh—"

"Do ya _want _the kid with the chronic inability to stop running his mouth to know your secret? Open it."

Batman stared at him, looked as if he wanted to say something further, and then gave up, punching in the security code after a moment of what looked like hesitation. But it couldn't have been. Batman didn't hesitate.

The moment he heard the door click he shouldered it open, rushing inside. Jonny had begun to shift in his arms a bit, which he took as a sign that he should have hit him harder. This wasn't going to work if Jonny ruined it by waking up.

He lay Jonny down on the mattress, looked at the chains. Jonny had slid them off, it seemed, and judging by his movement and breathing, the Joker wouldn't have time to get them back on before his friend regained consciousness. Oh well. He'd probably believe that he'd managed to take the cuffs off, bled all over the floor and sheets, and given himself an open head wound in his sleep. It wasn't that far of a stretch.

He straightened Jonny's glasses, turned to leave.

"Joker?"

_Damn it. _Well, maybe if he just ignored him—

"Joker?"

"No?" he offered, turning toward the mattress but continuing to edge toward the door.

"What are you doing?" He was struggling to sit up, looking dazed. "Why the _hell _did you slam my head against the wall?"

"No idea what you're talking about." He went back to the mattress, knelt down. "This is the first time I've seen ya all day, kitten. I thought you might like to know that I figured out the security code too, but I, uh, didn't wanna wake you, so I'll just be off—"

Jonny grabbed hold of his wrist, kept him from rising. "You slammed me into a wall. A cement wall. _Twice._ You could have killed me, you son of a bitch."

_Oh, because your life is so worth living. _"You were dreaming, angel." He put his free hand on Jonny's shoulder, pushing him back onto the mattress. "You were kicking around a lot, so it might have felt like—"

The hand not clasped around the Joker's wrist moved to his face, grazed the blood there. "I'm _bleeding._"

"Like I said. Kicking around a lot. Look, you seem really stressed about this, so I'll just leave ya to go back to sleep, and—"

"You were _screaming_." He was wincing. It could have been from the pain of the head wound, or maybe it hurt to remember. He hoped it was the latter. His life would be far less stressful, if he could just convince Jonny into forgetting all about this. "I thought the Batman was killing you, you sounded like you were being ripped apart. I thought you were _dying_."

"Oh, so it was a nightmare. That explains a lot." He stroked Jonny's hand, fingers grazing over the round scar that the Joker had been told came from a nail gun. "I'm sure it was scary, but I'm fine, see?"

"Your makeup is gone, your face is bandaged, you're bleeding all over—and getting it on me and the floor and the sheets, I might add—and the chains are still hanging off of you. I just happened to have a dream where all of those occurred precisely as they are now, is that it? And explain exactly how all that came to be, if the Batman didn't attack you?"

_Hell._ "I got bored?"

"Enough. I _know _that I came over to help you and fell—tackled him and started throwing punches. And I know that you tried to stop me and I ended up pulling off Bruce Wayne—the Batman's—mask. There is nothing you can say to make me believe that that didn't happen."

The Joker stared at him. And forced himself to laugh until tears came to his eyes. "_Bruce Wayne_? Honey, remind me to try whatever meds they've got you on, because that sounds like one _hell _of a trip."

"Shut up." Jonny wasn't going to make this easy, it seemed. The Joker wondered if it would do permanent damage if he rammed his head against the wall a few more times. He wondered if he even cared what damage it did. "What exactly did you hope to accomplish by knocking me out? Did you actually think I'd believe that I dreamt it up?"

"Jonathan." He ran a hand along his friend's face, wiping away the blood there. "It didn't happen." He lifted his hand, waved it from one side of his body to the other as he spoke, as if performing a Jedi mind trick. Suggestion was a powerful thing, provided the person who needed convincing was open to it.

Jonny, however, was about as open as a parking space on Black Friday, at the moment. "Not. Going. To. Work."

The Joker tried to look as reasonable as a man with a Glasgow smile, covered in blood and bandages, possibly could. "All right, I'm sure it _seemed _real, but that doesn't change the fact that—"

"_Dulcis Virgo Maria_," Jonny muttered, before raising his arm and pointing towards the door. "He's standing _right there_, you idiot."

The Joker turned to find Batman darkening the doorway. _Damn it. _"And how long have ya been standing there?"

"The entire time."

"_Why_?"

"As if I'd leave the two of you alone together."

The Joker ground his teeth. "Well, thanks ever so much. I almost had him convinced."

"No, you really didn't," Jonny snapped, as Batsy scoffed. Everyone was against him. Nice. He tried to do a good deed, and this was how he was repaid. Now that Jonny knew the unfortunate truth, it was only a matter of time until everyone and their third cousin did as well, and Bats would lose all of his intimidation factor. Who was going to be afraid of some playboy idiot? Just thinking about the face beneath the mask made his stomach twist again, making slamming his own head into the wall seem like a greatly appealing process. It wasn't _fair._

"'Scuse me for trying to protect your dirty little secret." He turned back to Jonny, who he realized was still clamped to his wrist. Out of fear of Bats, it would seem. Maybe he was wrong about the Caped Crusader's street cred being dependent on anonymity. "Any chance I can convince you that you're still dreaming?"

"Absolutely not."

Weren't scarecrows supposed to be brainless? He wasn't even being his fun, unable-to-shut-up self. That had better be the anger talking and not the meds adjusting. If the Joker had to know the horrible truth about his Bat and have his spur of the moment confuse-Jonny-into-forgetting-what-he-knows plan fail, he at least wanted entertainment out of it. It seemed the world was against him, today.

Jonny still looked pale as ever, except for the streaks of red where blood had run down his face. Knowing him, he probably thought Batsy was going to kill him so as not to compromise the protection of the Bruce Wayne persona. It was funny, how such a smart person could panic about such impossible things. Well, it would have been funny, had he not been in such a shitty mood. His hand was tight around the Joker's wrist; not as tight as it could be, as the wound from the cuffs made his skin slick with blood, but still tight enough to hurt nicely. He looked a few minutes away from a panic attack.

Bats also looked pale under the mask, jaw tight and mouth in a line thinner than the Joker ever recalled seeing before. Usually the Joker liked seeing him get all serious; it meant a fight was in short order. This, he did not like. Not one bit. Who knew how Batsy would take this? He hadn't wanted to let the Bat know he was in on the truth, but the loss of his makeup had forced his hand. That had been _wrong_.

The Joker wasn't sure how he looked at the moment, but he still felt sick. He felt naked without the makeup. Worse than naked, dirty somehow. He'd never had a security blanket, and his makeup did _not _serve that purpose, but he would kill to have it back. It didn't help that the whole Bruce Wayne debacle was out in the open now. Not at all.

There was an elephant in the room again, but unlike the full salute in the skirt from the other day, this one wasn't amusing. He could feel the unspoken question hanging over all of their heads, like a rain cloud about to start pouring. _Where do we go from here?_

* * *

AN: _Dulcis Virgo Maria _is Sweet Virgin Mary. I'm not sure why I have Jonathan use Catholic terms at times, given that his great-grandmother appeared to be some kind of Protestant, and his Year One comic leads me to think that he's an atheist. So yeah.

I'll try to have a longer next chapter!


	26. Keeping the Secret

AN: Last night of Humans vs. Zombies, and I managed to survive until this morning without zombie-fying. My sister's visiting this weekend and I have a test to study for tomorrow night, but then my schedule should be back to normal, at least until finals. Sorry about the delays!

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

There were times when Crane hated being a genius, and this was one of them.

His head was pounding as if with the world's worst hangover. Well, he'd only had one hangover to compare it with, but this was just as bad if not worse than that experience. He wouldn't be at all surprised if he was concussed, but this was painful enough that he couldn't bring himself to care. There was nothing he wanted more than to fall asleep and hope that he wouldn't be in agony when he woke up. And his body was perfectly fine with that.

His mind, however, his brilliant, wonderful mind that he'd never hated more in his life, would not let him do that.

Oddly enough, Scarecrow had shut up completely. Jonathan would have expected him to be going on so loudly he wouldn't be able to hear his own thoughts, but he hadn't heard a sound from him since he opened the door to the Joker's cell. Knowing him, he'd probably "left" for the time being, in anticipation of the pain that usually accompanied his encounters with the Batman. Not that Jonathan could blame him. If Scarecrow ever made a habit of rushing into dangerous situations, he'd leave too.

Actually, maybe he wouldn't. It was his body, after all; he tended to feel concern over what happened to it. Scarecrow never seemed too worried about that bit, as long as he didn't feel it directly.

No, the racing in his mind was entirely from his own thoughts, and for once he appreciated Scarecrow's absence. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to function with his other half talking to him on top of all of this.

_Bruce Wayne. The Batman is Bruce Wayne. The Batman. They're the same person. _He almost wished that the Joker would slam his head into the wall again, so he wouldn't have to listen to this. Racing thoughts were one thing. Having his normally lucid mind start spouting the same sort of word vomit his meds had been forcing out of his mouth every time he tried speaking was quite another. To say that he couldn't stand it would be like saying that the surface of the sun was warm.

_Yes. He's the Batman. And the Prince of Gotham._ He found himself repeating it, as if thinking the words a few thousand times would make the information easier to swallow. It didn't, of course, because that was just the sort of life he led.

It shouldn't have been that hard to accept. It really shouldn't. In fact, looking back on things, he should have realized that long ago, and a sizeable bit of his incessant thoughts were devoted to telling him just what an idiot he was for not putting two and two together. After all, the Batman would have to be young, to run around the way he did, and rich, to have the devices he had, and the Batmobile. He'd said as much to the Caped Crusader before. Really, it made sense.

But despite all of that, he couldn't make his mind accept it. It was like putting together a jigsaw puzzle that formed an abstract work of art; the pieces all fit, but the finished product made no sense. Bruce Wayne? Bruce Wayne, the playboy idiot who'd always shown more concern for his social life than anyone in the city? The idiot who was always in the tabloids with some new bimbo hanging off his arm? The college dropout? How could _he _be the Batman?

_Well, it's an act, obviously._ Yes. And somewhere in the middle of his swirling torrent of thoughts, he knew that. Yet at the same time, he couldn't believe it at all. Of course the Batman would have to project an image that was the complete opposite of himself, something so different that no one would be able to make the connection. And now that he thought about it, the Wayne Foundation had poured thousands of dollars into Arkham's security, to no avail. But still. It just didn't work.

_Bruce Wayne defeated me. _Bruce Wayne _poisoned me. I left my horse in the responsibility of some rich idiot who's had more women than James Bond._ Not, given his night life, that he probably did anything with those women. Even so.

"Jonny? Jonny? Hey!" He became slowly aware that a hand was waving back and forth in front of his face. "Christ. How hard did I hit you?"

"What?"

The Joker's tongue ran over his lips, a gesture he was so accustomed to suddenly looking completely alien. He realized he'd never really adjusted to the sight of the Joker without his makeup. Not that the Joker had given him many opportunities to do so. "I've been trying to get your attention for, like, five minutes now."

"Oh." The Batman was still in the doorway. Crane wished that he would leave; his presence certainly wasn't helping him to process this information. Everything about the sight of him was adding to Crane's confliction, right down to his posture. How could this be Bruce Wayne? Granted he hadn't seen a lot of the man, beyond glimpses in _The Gotham Times _or on GCN, but Bruce Wayne didn't stand that way. He simply did not.

"Having an in_ter_esting conversation, I take it?"

"No."

"Ah. An annoying one?"

"I'm not having a conversation."

The Batman was staring at them as if they were crazy. All right, the Joker was completely mad, but he didn't appreciate the idea being applied to him, no matter how many times the Bat had said as much in the past. If anyone in this room—besides the Joker—was crazy, it was the man who had everything in the world he could possibly want—who'd never had to work for anything in his perfect little life—and still felt the urge to run around in Kevlar as if he was some sort of hero, instead of what he really was. A spoiled brat playing with his toys.

"Whatever. You didn't hear a word I just said, didya?"

"The part before or after you started waving your hand at me?" Come to think of it, he wouldn't mind if the Joker left either. He was far more comfortable around the clown than the Batman, head bashing aside, but he wasn't exactly helping with the mental dilemma Crane was having, trying to adjust to this information.

Not that he could tell him to get out. That would be asking to be injured again.

"The part before."

"No." He wondered, after he'd answered, if saying yes would have gotten the clown out of the room any sooner. Probably not.

"Ya really need to work on your listening skills, kitten." He smacked his lips, and Crane felt his patience break.

"If whatever you said before you got my attention is important enough to bear repeating, say it, and be quick about it. I tried to _help _you, I thought you were dying, I thought he'd finally snapped and was, by the sound of it, either breaking every bone in your body or ripping your skin off, and I risked my life to come over and help you, only to have you slam my head into a wall, _twice_, and then try to lie to me about what happened, so I am _not _in the mood to deal with you right now. Say it, or get out of t—"

The Joker's hand clamped over his mouth, smearing blood from his wrist wound across Crane's face. "You need to work on the shutting up problem, too. At least you seem to be using commas now."

He wondered if the satisfaction of biting the Joker's hand would be greater than the pain that would follow, and decided against it.

"Now, as I was trying to say before you had your little hissy fit, I don't think ya need me to tell you that this is a rather, uh, delicate situation?"

_Well, there's the understatement of the year._

Crane sat up slightly straighter, the Joker moving his hand with him to keep him silent. _Scarecrow?_

His other half didn't answer, but Crane could still feel his presence. So he'd decided that whatever the Joker was going on about was worth hearing. And he could count on one hand the times those two had agreed on anything. Scarecrow was right; delicate didn't begin to cover their predicament.

The Joker tightened his fingers so that he was gripping Crane's face, and gently moved his head up and down in a nod. "Right. And I'm sure you know what Batsy's like when he loses his temper, if not from experience, then from, uh, example." He held up his opposite but equally bloody wrist.

Crane's stomach twisted. He had the fear toxin damage as a reminder of just how much damage the Batman—playboy billionaire or not—could do, and even if he didn't know from experience, the Joker's injuries were example enough. The fact that the Joker was more than likely enjoying the pain didn't help in the slightest bit. The clown moved him in a nod again, and he could feel the blood smearing onto his face.

From the doorway, the Batman began to say something, before the Joker raised his free hand to silence him. "Ah ah ah, Bats, I've got this. Trust me, he listens better to me."

Scarecrow made a scoffing sound inside his head, but offered no further comment.

"As I was saying, you don't want to make Batman mad, I'm sure. Now, this may be completely off base on my part, but if someone exposed my secret identity, I'd be pissed. And, ya know, hurt the one who ratted me out."

Once again, the Batman made a sound—the start of a protest, maybe—and once again, he was cut off.

"Shush, Bats. How's he gonna learn if you keep interrupting? Jonny, I'll betcha remember how bad it hurt when I broke your ribs and all, right?"

_Is he going to beat me into a coma to keep me from telling?_ He felt that dropping sensation in his stomach, wished there was some place safe to run to.

_Not unless you want to hide behind the Batman._

_Oh, very funny. I suppose you're planning on running away again if he tries that?_

_Of course._

_Bastard._

_You're only insulting yourself. _Think_, Jonathan. You're the genius here. Sure, the clown makes drawn out speeches before beating the shit out of people, but what he says is just as important as the action following the threat. He keeps saying _if _someone tells. It's hypothetical._

He wasn't reassured. _For now. You know how stable his moods are._

_The Batman wouldn't let him._

_No, he'd want to do that himself._

Scarecrow didn't contradict him there, and he was almost sick. Only the knowledge that the Joker would most certainly kill him, Batman or not, if he retched on his hand, kept him from vomiting. Beaten horribly by the Batman or the Joker, without a third option. This day just kept getting better and better, didn't it?

Shaken, he nodded before the Joker could make him do so again.

"Yeah, I thought you would. Now, let me make this clear, angel. If Batsy's found out, he's gonna get pissy and come after you." Batman said something at this, but the Joker spoke over him. "And if he's found out, he'll have to either quit and run or become even more of an outlaw, which means more time, uh, running from the cops and less with me. So that's two far stronger people who both wanna beat ya 'til you vomit out your lungs from the pain."

He waited a moment, to let that sink in. "So, you promise you'll be a good boy and keep your lips sealed?"

Crane expected the Joker to let go here, and let him respond. Instead, the Joker took Crane's hand in his, bent his fingers into the 'Scout's Honor' position, and held it up, making him nod with the free hand. "Good, 'cause I didn't wanna have to, uh, sew 'em shut. I'm not in the mood to hear him rant again," the Joker added to the Batman, "and I didn't think you'd wanna either."

_Stupid bastard._

_Ignore him, Jonathan. He's just pissed that you found out, he'll forget in five seconds. Batman's the one you've got to worry about._

Crane glanced at the man in the doorway and cringed. The Batman could definitely hit harder and fight better.

_It's not just that. Think about it, you know his secret._

_So? Who'd believe me?_

_Don't be an idiot. You thought it all made sense yourself after you found out, didn't you? People will dismiss the truth, they always do_—and that was true, it was how his experiments had never been noticed by the rest of the Arkham staff—_but all it takes is one person to believe it._

_Yes, but what's your point? The beating wouldn't be worth it, we all know that._

_No, Jonathan. _Think.

He almost wanted to giggle at the irony there. The Scarecrow of all people, telling him to think. Scarecrow, who had just sat back acting bored while he did all the work making the toxin. Who'd gotten them caught and poisoned on their second rendezvous with the Batman by leaping out at him without planning. It was ridiculous.

And yet Scarecrow sounded so serious, he found himself going cold. _What?_

_You know his secret. He might be willing to do anything to protect it. Anything._

His mind took a moment to process those words, and then immediately rejected them. _No. He wouldn't. He doesn't kill—_

_Did the Joker seem at all surprised to see Bruce Wayne's face when you pulled of f the mask?_

_I don't know, my back was to him and then he—_

_I know what he did. But did you feel him suddenly straighten up? Or gasp?_

_No…_ He felt like an idiot, missing all these details that his other half had seen, even while absent. To be fair, he'd been a bit distracted by the revelation, but still. _You think he already knew?_

_Yes. And the Batman was trying to kill him, wasn't he?_

_We don't know for— _He thought back to the screams he'd heard coming from the other cell. _Yes._

_Right. And there's no guarantee that he won't do the same to us._

The only thing that kept Crane from being sick this time was the sudden shock that ran through him as the Batman began to cross the room toward them.


	27. Tension

AN: So, my sister's coming to visit me tomorrow, but not until around six, so I'll try and have a chapter up. If it's not up Friday, I should at least have enough to have it finished by Saturday.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

_I'm fucked._

It was a crude way to describe his predicament, but the only thing Bruce could think of that adequately covered the situation. Two of Gotham's most dangerous criminals—one of them being _the _most dangerous—knew his secret identity, and all it would take was one slip of the tongue to a reporter or police officer to have him investigated and discovered, or the briefest mention to another villain to have his home under attack.

Nothing would prevent the Joker or Crane from attacking him either, when they got out.

_If _they got out. But of course, they had to, at some point. It wasn't as if he could hold them here forever. They'd proven themselves able to escape the cells—Crane on multiple occasions—and even if they couldn't, it would still drive him insane, having to deal with the pair. And the only other option to make sure they stayed silent was unthinkable.

His plan had been, originally, to keep them hostage until he found the location of the bombs. Then deactivate them and return the villains to Arkham. Now, he had no idea how long they'd be unwilling and unwanted guests in the cave. He couldn't release them, not until he was sure his secret was protected. Which was impossible, knowing the pair as well as he did.

Yes, fucked was the only way to describe it.

He struggled to keep his outward appearance calm as possible. They knew, yes, which meant things could only get worse from here, but for the moment, at least, they were still in the cell, and both injured. For the time being, they were at his mercy. He had no idea what was running through their heads at the moment; probably all the ways they could exploit this knowledge—he wasn't reassured in the least by the promise the Joker had forced Crane to make. But they also had no idea what he was thinking, so he might as well keep them guessing by keeping his emotions in check. As Falcone had said, people feared what they didn't understand, and while the Joker never seemed afraid of him, Jonathan Crane already looked horrified.

He reflected that Crane had seemed fearless, in their first encounter, from what he could make of him through the hallucinogen. Ever since feeling the effects of the toxin himself, that confidence was gone. Had he not been so preoccupied by the exposure of his true identity, he likely would have felt guilt at that revelation. Even though the man had set him on fire and tortured people before being exposed to the toxin, Batman's actions hadn't exactly helped to even out his instability.

_Alfred. _He tensed at the realization, not noticing if his captives reacted or not. Knowing his butler, he was almost certainly watching this on the security monitors and—given Bruce's luck—he'd probably had a heart attack around the time the mask had come off. Even if he hadn't, he needed to have the situation explained to him.

Maybe he'd have an idea as to just how to deal with this fiasco.

He forced himself to relax. Injured though they were, it wouldn't be out of character for either the Scarecrow or the Joker to attack him anyway, and being tense wouldn't help his reaction time in the least. Exhaling, he started across the cell toward the mattress.

Behind the Joker's hand still covering his mouth and the blood on his face, Crane went white. The Joker noted the shiver that had run through his companion, and turned to face Batman. "Picking up where ya left off, Bats?" He extended the bloody wrist of his free hand, almost in offering. "'Cause if you were trying to tear my hands off, and I think you were, you didn't do too thorough a job."

He did grab the Joker's wrist, ignoring the clown's giggling, and then took hold of the other, waited for the Joker to release Crane before pulling his hands together, binding them temporarily with the chains that had broken off the wall as he took two of the cuffs lying empty on the mattress. There were only four cuffs—not counting the ones on the Joker no longer connected to anything—so neither man could be fully bound. And he knew it was idiotic, leaving them alone together. But the Joker couldn't be put back in his cell while there was nothing to hold him down, especially not after he'd seen Batman enter the security code. For all Bruce knew, he could have memorized it. True, the Joker had found some way to get out of his restraints before this, but leaving him unrestrained on purpose was asking for trouble.

He clicked the cuffs around the Joker's wrists, as tightly as he could without pushing into the wounds. If the Joker was pained by this, he didn't show it, only smirked and tried leaning against him. He stepped out of reach, taking the broken chains hanging from the Joker's wrists and ankles and winding them through the chains attached to the wall, hoping to hold him as securely as he could under the circumstances. With that done, he snapped the remaining two cuffs around Crane's wrists, and headed for the door.

Once it closed behind him, he sprinted for the stairs, without a glance back.

* * *

Poke.

The Joker's index finger made contact with Jonny's ribs, leaving a faint pink smudge of blood against the white fabric of his shirt. Good riddance. The whole suit-with-the-mask disaster Scarecrow had going for him was less frightening than a box full of kittens, so the Joker was doing him a favor by ruining his clothes. Maybe he'd wear something less idiotic, the next time he had a chance to change. Or maybe Bats would give him a new shirt, as he'd done with the Joker. Which would fit someone as tiny as Jonny like a circus tent. He hoped that happened; it would be hilarious, and God knew he could do with a laugh at the moment.

Which was why he felt the urge to poke Jonny in the first place. As he'd predicted, his friend jerked and tried pulling away with nowhere to go, trying not to laugh. It was slightly amusing, anyway, and would become funnier as Jonny got more pissed. He was pissed himself, and wanted nothing more than to break Jonny's ribs again, for pulling of the Bat's mask and completely ruining the Joker's day—not that it hadn't been off to a horrible start already—but he had to be realistic. In the doctor's current state of mind, a few good hits would probably make his heart give out, and while there was lots of fun to be had with corpses, Jonny being alive figured into the plans he'd made.

Well, not plans, exactly. More like sketches, or the frame before the house was built around it. Whatever it was, it called for a breathing scarecrow, contradictory as that was.

Poke. Poke.

"Stop that," Jonny hissed, as the Joker took his arm to keep him from inching away again. It wasn't nearly as satisfying as beating him, but it at least made him uncomfortable without making him flatline. The Joker didn't respond. Not verbally, anyway.

Poke poke poke poke. Poke.

"What are you doing?" Jonny smacked him away with the hand he wasn't holding onto, eyes icy behind his glasses. "Quit."

"I'm bored."

"I'm angry. You injured me when all I did was try to help you. I don't know what your issue is with my knowing the truth—it's your own fault the mask came off because you're the one who pulled me while I was holding onto it—but all I did was come to your aid because you sounded like you were dying and as if slamming me into a wall and then lying about it wasn't bad enough you seem to have deemed it necessary to harass me as well and all this after you promised that you wouldn't hurt me—"

The Joker reached out, ran his fingers up and down Jonny's side to silence him. Well, it sent him into an involuntary giggling fit, but same difference. He'd lost the ability to use commas again, it seemed. "I did not. I said I wouldn't sneak into your cell _at Arkham _and hurt you. There's a big big difference between some cave under the Palisades and Arkham." He considered his words, licking the scars. "Well, not too big. They're about the same in terms of therapeutic benefit, don'tcha think?"

"You son of a bitch—"

Poke. "Look, kitten, I'm really not all that pleased with you right now, so you should really stop digging yourself deeper. Unless you're suicidal." He caressed the scars on the wrist he had hold of, around the cuff. "Oh, sorry, forgot who I was talking to."

"I hate you."

"See, that's what I'm talking about," he said, with another poke accompanied by a fair bit of his nails. It was moments like these that he loved having a pet scarecrow; he was so fun, both to irritate and pull the stuffing out of. "Ya know that you're really not helping your odds of survival, right?"

"As if the Batman would let you—"

"Neither of us is exactly in Batsy's good graces at the moment, now are we? Besides, he doesn't have to approve. Leaving us alone was stupid as hell, ya know. If I wanted, I could kill you in about a second."

Jonny looked as if he was having at heart attack, at that. Poor thing was such a coward; it really was hysterical that he seemed to think himself the master of fear.

"_Breathe, _Jonny. I was kidding." Funny as he was when he was medicated like this, they were going to have to switch back to the old drugs when he got them out of here. What use was a friend if he was going to pass out or die at the slightest threat? Or they could go back to the prescription he'd had a while back when Arkham had really fucked him over, when he was so out of it he could be captivated for hours by something like aluminum foil. Yeah, they should try that again, if Joker could find it in his medical file. Now, medication—why did that seem important? Ah. The escape plan.

He leaned forward to whisper in Jonny's ear, ignoring the way his friend twitched. "How many more of the pills have you got?"

Jonny's eyebrows raised slightly, and he leaned forward to whisper his answer back. "Two weeks. Why?"

The Joker shrugged. It wasn't wise to go revealing his plan to someone who couldn't be quiet. Plus, it was fun to keep Jonny in the dark. "Don't tell Bats that, got it? And not at all. Don't like, go off on some rant that includes," here he did a passable imitation of Jonny's whisper, "'and then the Joker told me not to tell you how many pills I have left' or something stupid like that."

"I won't. What am I supposed to do if he asks?"

"Lie."

"What if he wants to see?"

"He won't. And if he does, you're the genius here, come up with something. It'll be fine, kitten. Calm down."

Jonny still didn't look reassured, so the Joker gave him another poke in the ribs for support. Oddly, that didn't go over too well.

* * *

Alfred was waiting for him at the top of the elevator.

"It's—he—I can explain—"

"Do you want me to get the gun, Master Wayne?" He was referring, of course, to the weapons kept in the cave used to do test shots for ballistics, and Bruce had no idea if he was being his usual deadpan, or if he was serious. His butler had been in the special services, after all, and had been extremely efficient when he was.

"No. I take it you saw all of that?"

"Most, sir. I started my way over here as soon as you put the cowl back on and I decided you were in no immediate danger of being attacked. May I ask exactly what you were doing down there?"

Ah. In his panic over the discovery of his identity, he'd almost completely forgotten how violent things had gotten before Crane's intervention, despite the blood soaked Joker before him as a reminder. He recognized how wrong his actions had been, how he'd let the Joker manipulate him into exactly what he'd wanted, and felt self disgust mix with his already overwhelming anxiety. He couldn't imagine how that scene must have looked to Alfred, without the accompanying audio. "The Joker—he already knew. Before Crane got the mask off, I mean. He'd put two and two together—the money and the height and eye color and all—he told me after I bandaged his face."

"And to think that of all the millions we've spent to create Batman, neither of us ever thought to invest in a pair of colored contacts."

Alfred's snark in the face of horrific circumstances was truly stunning.

"Is that why you attempted to tear his limbs off, sir?" There was reproach in Alfred's tone now, the humor gone. He knew that he deserved it, knew that his reaction had been unacceptable. And the pain of letting Alfred down was worse than the fear and disgusting snaking around within him.

"No." There was no excuse for it, and he didn't try to make one. "He…Mom and Dad…he said that he'd thought of defiling their grave…" He trailed off, too ashamed that he didn't force himself to brush off the remark to continue. Alfred had told him, once, that he was getting lost in this monster of his, and never had that seemed more true than now.

"Not a day goes by, Master Wayne, that I don't wish your parents were still here." The reproach was still in his voice, but there was a gentleness accompanying it. "To have their memory soiled by a man who's made it his goal to destroy everything you work for is painful, to say the least. But it can't be personal. Because if it is—"

"It's about revenge, and not justice." It was a line he'd heard many a time before, but that he knew he'd hear many a time again. And with good reason. "I'm sorry."

"There's no use torturing yourself over something you can't change, sir."

"I know." It didn't make it any easier to quit doing just that. "Alfred, what am I going to do?" It should have made him feel pathetic, asking his butler to advise him as if he was a child, but he trusted Alfred's judgment more than anyone's. Sometimes, even more than his own.

"Well, I'm not going to say I told you so, though I absolutely did." He seemed slightly amused again and Bruce found himself infinitely grateful for that, as though it did anything to detract from the misery of the situation. "But if the Joker knows your secret and hasn't told, there's a possibility he'll continue to keep your identity hidden."

Bruce considered it. The Joker seemed to hate that anyone existed underneath the mask, so it wasn't too far of a stretch to assume that he'd keep the truth hidden to maintain his fantasy. But he'd revealed what he knew despite his disgust with the truth, out of spite. The desire to wrong Bruce the way he felt he'd been wronged. If he could let out information that made him sick to even contemplate out of anger, there was no security as far as the truth was concerned.

He told Alfred as much. "And there's still Crane."

"I would suggest, sir, that you stop going to pieces over things you can't control at the moment, and take things one step at a time."

It was good advice, and he might have taken it to heart had he not still been completely flustered. "But—"

"This too shall pass, Master Wayne."

"But if I'm exposed—"

"There is one alternative."

He stared, caught off guard.

"What?"

"You let me go and get the gun." Only the almost imperceptible glimmer in his eye let Bruce know that he wasn't serious.

"I don't think allowing my butler to shoot chained prisoners without interfering meshes well with my code, Alfred."

"I suppose not." He gave the faintest sigh. "But it would do a bloody wonder for my stress levels."


	28. Doll

AN: So, my Latin test is out of the way. Life should be somewhat less hectic now. Perhaps.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

"Did—" Jonathan cut himself off by biting his lower lip, breathing in deeply. He was still too stressed, and if he tried speaking before getting better control of himself, whatever he tried to say would come out in that same jumbled hyperactive mess that he'd been spewing whenever he tried to talk as of late. Damn antipsychotics. If he didn't need them to function so badly, he'd have stopped taking them long ago. He knew how to hide pills, after, having been both a doctor and a patient with friends like the Joker, who never took their meds.

He'd considered starting a drug business of sorts in Arkham once, using the meds the Joker ending up flushing nine and a half times out of ten. The clown was taking enough to supply at least a fourth of the functional inmates at any given moment. He had been fairly sure the Joker would agree, as long as he got a cut of the profits, but decided against it before ever asking. It was too big a reminder of his work with the mob—something so beneath him, he'd like to never think of it again—and besides, the Joker's meds could probably kill an elephant. Certainly a person, especially if it counteracted with a patient's own meds. Most of the patients didn't know exactly what they were on, so distributing pills would have been asking for something to go wrong.

While he liked money—it did help to have some on his person when he broke out, or to bribe a guard with—he didn't enjoy killing people. Accidents during his experiments were one thing. Those weren't premeditated, and the deaths served a purpose to his research. Likewise, he had no issue with killing or injuring someone endangering him, or a person who really, really deserved it. Say, his entire high school graduating class, should he ever happen upon any of them again. But killing mental patients who weren't pissing him off or serving as test subjects didn't seem right, somehow. It made him uncomfortable for reasons he couldn't quite explain.

"Yeah?" the Joker asked, winding a finger absentmindedly through his hair. It occurred to Jonathan that he'd never actually seen the Joker as a blond, despite the fact that the color was often visible through the spray-on dye. Even when he showered, he usually put the dye back in before he came out of the bathroom. And when he didn't, there was a greenish tinge to his hair, as if he'd been swimming in too much chlorine. Jonathan wasn't sure if that was from constant exposure to dye or if he just didn't wash it thoroughly.

The hair around his face, the lock he was twirling now, didn't have much dye on it. Jonathan assumed it had come off when the Joker had washed his face, if he'd been the one to wash it. There was still the green tint obscuring the blond, though, and a reddish shade from his blood. The strands wrapped around his finger looked almost like spaghetti covered in sauce, the rest of his hair a curled green and red mess so tangled, it almost looked as if he had dreadlocks. The bandages on his face were also bloody, as was most of his body.

Jonathan wondered what it said about the life he lived, that the Joker's hair color caught his attention more than the fact that he'd been horrifically beaten did.

"Jonny." The Joker unwound his hair from his hand, waved that hand in Jonathan's face. "Hello? Kitten? Ground control to Major Tom?"

He nodded to indicate that he'd heard and forced himself to control his breathing. His emotional stability had been torn to shreds by this latest medicinal cocktail, but he could speak normally, provided he put a great deal of effort into it. He hadn't put forth that effort around the Batman, as he found it better expended on things like saving his energy to fend off an attack, or run if the opportunity was provided.

"You can talk, ya know. I might end up, uh, ripping out your vocal cords and making you communicate by writing what you wanna say on signs for the rest of your life if you're all annoying and verbose, but you can talk. No pressure."

_I hate you._ It took him another three minutes to relax enough to speak after _that_. "Did—did you know?"

"Know what?"

"About—" He stopped, exhaled. "Batman."

The Joker's expression fell, the lack of makeup making the hurt and discomfort on his face look oddly normal, oddly human. Only the hair and the scars remained as reminders of the monster he was. It was still disconcerting to know that there _was _a face under the paint, no matter how many times he'd seen it. It wasn't just a costume, not for the Joker. It was like Scarecrow and his mask; truly a part of him. "Yeah."

His voice was low and flat and Jonathan feared he'd be hit for asking. "H-how?"

"Not that hard to figure out. For a genius, you're kind of an idiot, no offense." His hand moved back to his hair, making a half-hearted and completely futile attempt to brush it out with his fingers. "Not as bad as Nigma, though. The man calls himself _the Riddler_, and he hasn't worked it out? What the hell?"

"Maybe he has and he just hasn't done anything about? You didn't. Unless…were you headed to Wayne Manor?"

The Joker nodded, but didn't elaborate further. His face was flushed, and there were dark circles around his eyes that weren't made by paint, for once. Nor were they entirely from bruising. He looked sick, and Jonathan realized he had no idea why his face was bandaged.

"What happened to you?"

"Not much."

Well, this was a useful conversation. "What were you planning on doing when you got to Bruce Wayne's house?" He hadn't seemed at all bothered by changing his plan to being taken hostage. Had that been his goal all along?

"To see."

"What?"

He got no response. The Joker was staring off into space, and Jonathan wasn't sure if what they were on the same frequency anymore. Whatever he was looking at, it didn't seem to be anything in the room around them. He'd only seen the Joker like this once before; on the roof of their apartment, searching the sky for the Batman. It unnerved him. A beating wasn't enough to make the Joker act this way. He didn't want to know what the Batman had done to cause such a change in the clown.

For the other cell there was a loud, mechanical whirring that made Jonathan jump and the Joker sit up straighter. He listened for a moment, frozen. "Is that a—is that a _drill_?"

"The chains." Jonathan had no idea what the Joker meant, but at least his friend's eyes were focused on something tangible now, namely the door.

"Chains?"

"Slow today, aren'tcha?" His voice was bright and nonchalant, as if that odd period of uncharacteristic behavior had never happened. As far as the Joker was concerned, it probably hadn't. He held up his wrists, indicating the broken chains woven through the restraints actually attached to the wall. "Bats can't throw me back in my cell unless he can keep me locked up. Or try to, anyway. So he's over there playing _This Old House_. How many sets of these things do you think he has?" he added, rattling the chains.

"I don't want to think about it."

"I'd say at least a thousand."

Jonathan resisted the urge to panic and start rambling, tempting as it was. They might have been trapped by an idiot playboy, but an idiot playboy that also happened to be a brilliant detective and fighter, not to mention incredibly wealthy. He could only imagine the security systems more than likely set up outside of the cells. The doors were no harder than the ones at Arkham, but his chances of escape seemed to get smaller and smaller, the more he considered it. _Fantastic._

"Oh, calm down." The Joker's words were whispered and right next to his ear, making Jonathan jump again. He hadn't seen him lean over. "I've got a plan, all right? And don't mention that either, or I really will rip out your vocal cords." He paused, considered. "And then your lungs."

"I'm not an idiot." He tried to be offended despite the mild elation running through him. _He's got an escape plan._

"That's debatable. Your inability to be quiet? That isn't."

"Well, what do you want me to do, give him the silent treatment? He'll know something's up. It's not as if you can do all the speaking for me."

The Joker's eyes lit up, and he resisted the urge to moan. "You cannot be serious. We'll be in separate cells!"

"Not right when he comes back in. He'll expect that we were scheming while he was out." The Joker's voice dropped back to a whisper, as though he'd forgotten the possibility of hidden microphones for a moment. "So let me do the talking."

"Because my sitting there in perfect silence won't be a dead giveaway that something's up?"

"Considering what a control freak you are? No."

"He's just going to wait until you're out of the cell to interrogate me."

The Joker reached down and stroked Jonathan's hand. "Calm down, kitten. You're always _way _too jittery, ya know? It's why we didn't work out."

_We didn't work out because you tried to kill me._ He refused to let himself say it aloud. There was no way he'd be able to let out his thoughts on that particular issue without having a fit, and he preferred to keep his vocal cords inside his throat. Besides, that wasn't the important thing here. The Joker had a plan. An _escape _plan. And if there was one thing he knew about the Joker, it was that when he wanted something, he got it, not matter how improbable or downright impossible his scheme was. That, at least, was the silver lining on the cloud, even if the silver was a bit tarnished by blood.

_I don't like it._ Scarecrow spoke up for the first time in about ten minutes or so. He tended to hang back during conversations with the Joker, ever since the Halloween incident. Not out of fear, as far as Jonathan knew. More likely out of the knowledge that if he tried speaking to the Joker, he'd lose control and do something that got them injured.

_Do you like being the Batman's captive?_

_I don't like depending on _the Joker _for a way out. We should do it ourselves._

_Right, while I'm injured and unable to stop talking. I'd reveal whatever plan we'd come up with in five seconds._

_You wouldn't. Not if you trust yourself not to tattle on the Joker._

_I can force myself to shut up about the Joker because I fear retaliation from him. It's going to take a tremendous amount of effort on my part and probably make the Batman even more suspicious. You have no physical presence and therefore I do not fear your retaliation._

_You should._

Jonathan sighed. The Joker turned to regard him, but he didn't notice, too lost in his own thoughts. _I think I liked you better back when you would just shut up if I disagreed._

_Hey, I've taken a more active role in your life because _you _needed me. You've got no one to blame but yourself._

He would have argued that point, but he didn't get the chance, as the door opened. He'd barely had time to register that fact when the Joker's hand clamped back over his mouth, fast enough to be painful. Jerk. All right, so the shock of the moment had had him about to shout 'No, we weren't discussing an escape plan!' or something similar, but he would have been able to suppress that.

Probably.

The Batman appeared to be carrying first aid supplies. Crane wondered if that was out of guilt over beating the Joker, or if he was only trying to avoid infected wounds.

"Why are you covering his mouth?"

He was still doing the Bat voice, although there was no point to it now. Crane wasn't sure how he felt about that; Batman's voice was the one that haunted his nightmares, albeit it a bit more guttural and demonic sounding, as it had been under the influence of the toxin. Still, the idea of Bruce Wayne's voice accompanied by that suit was disturbing. It didn't fit, just as the entire idea of Wayne as the Bat didn't.

"I got sick of the chattiness, and I didn't have anything to gag him with. Can ya blame me?"

"Let go of him."

"Jonny says he prefers it if I stay where I'm at."

As Batman made his way across the room, Crane was fairly certain that one of his eyes twitched. "He didn't say anything."

_Oh, well spotted._ He was beginning to see how Bruce Wayne could be the Batman.

"Jonny is also sick of his talking problem and asked me to speak for him."

_Fantastic._ Once again, he had to fight the urge to bite the Joker's hand. So he'd been demoted from sidekick and or Bat Bait, if the escape attempt didn't favor him, to imaginary friend. Or doll. Whatever. It wasn't bad enough that he was confined, apparently, the Joker had to begin ripping apart what was left of his dignity.

"Let him go. I have to disinfect the injury you gave him."

He sounded almost as if he was scolding the Joker. Like that would make the slightest difference. The world had gone mad.

"He's bleeding on that side." The Joker poked the wound and Crane winced. "And my arm is on _this _side. So there's no problem."

The Batman glared at him, eyes managing to look blacker than the paint around him. He knelt down in front of them, tearing some sort of medicinal wipe out of its packaging. Crane wondered why he wasn't starting with the Joker, who clearly had the worse injuries, between the two of them. Perhaps he felt it safer to treat the Joker when there weren't two villains in the same room. It would be characteristic of the Joker to attack him even while chained and injured, and he had to admit that he'd probably help. It was wise of the Bat to keep as much of a distance as he could.

"Is that rubbing alcohol?" The Joker asked, pointing his free hand toward the wipe that the Batman had been about to apply to the wound.

"Yes."

"Ya can't use that on him, Bats." He sounded completely serious, which meant wherever he was going with this, it couldn't be good.

"Why not?" the Batman asked, with the tone of man who was one straw away from snapping.

"Jonny doesn't like alcohol in any form. He's had bad experiences with it."

_Oh, for the love of God. _A doll, that's exactly what he was. Or a pet, he wasn't quite sure.

"You cannot be serious."

"No, really. I remember this one time when he got drunk—I'd tried to keep the stuff away from him, but he insisted—and he ended up trying to—"

Crane shoved his hand away. "_Sanctus Dominus, _just give me the thing and I'll do it myself."

"No," they answered together.

"Why on Earth not? It's a cleansing wipe, it's not as if I can create fear toxin out of rubbing alcohol, especially not in a number of seconds even if that was possible—which it isn't—and I can't do myself or either of you a serious injury with it unless I'm stupid enough to stab myself in the eye with the damn thing, which I'm not, so there's no reason I—"

"Yeah, there is," the Joker interrupted, forcing his hand over Crane's mouth again. "And that's because you're way more amusing when you don't get your way. Jonny's changed his mind," he added, turning to the Batman, as if the previous exchange had not occurred. "You can go ahead."

Crane wished, as he had so many times before, that the Joker was not immune to fear toxin. Not that he had any on his person, but what he wouldn't give to have the chance at revenge whenever he did.

* * *

AN: "Ground control to Major Tom" is a line from David Bowie's song _Space Oddity. _

_This Old House _is a home repair show.

_Sanctus Dominus _means Holy Lord in Latin. It seems I'm still on a Latin kick.


	29. Washing

AN: Everybody remember The Joker Blogs on Youtube? Crane's in the latest one, and their actor is good. I about fainted when I saw him.

Thanks for reviews!

* * *

The wound the Joker had inflicted on Crane—right where his hairline began, from the temple to the cheekbone—wasn't particularly deep or bloody. It was similar to the Joker's own injury, like a friction burn deep enough to raise blood, caused by the impact of skin against cement. Batman didn't want a repeat of the incident with the Joker, however, so he was as thorough about cleaning it as he could be without applying painful force or provoking Crane into a heart attack. Easier said than done. He'd already looked about as calm as a frightened rabbit, and Batman's increase in proximity hadn't helped in the slightest.

He began to wonder if all the money he donated to Arkham wouldn't be better spent on hiring more competent doctors instead of tightening security. Certainly, it was hard to imagine the villains' progress getting any worse.

He was trying to put an adhesive bandage over the abrasion without getting it tangled in Crane's hair when the man shoved the Joker's hand away from his mouth again. "Batman?"

"Yes?"

Crane said something completely inaudible, while his face went the reddest Batman had ever seen human skin turn. The Joker, having apparently picked up on his words, giggled.

"What?"

"I've been down here for four days," Crane said, presumably repeating his earlier statement. "Without bathing."

The Joker giggled again, hard enough that he had to stop and breathe. "You are so _anal_, do ya know that?"

"Just because you're content to let yourself get filthy enough that forests could grow in the dirt under your nails, it doesn't mean we all are." He paused, scowling at his companion. "Thank God."

"You know being too clean can seriously screw up your immune system, right?"

"You know that letting your teeth rot like that can actually kill you, right?" Crane, for all his many, many problems, seemed to be on par with Alfred when it came to delivering sarcastic remarks in a perfectly flat voice. "I'd rather risk an overactive immune system than get the plague."

"Does that even exist anymore?"

"Yes."

Batman tuned out their bickering as he considered the request. Between his search for any clue that would lead him to the Joker's men and the chaos the clown had caused, he'd forgotten about things like hygiene. Crane didn't look too worse for wear—aside from the greasy feel and look of his hair and the stubble on his face—but the Joker was positively foul, reeking with the smells of infection, blood, sweat, and another bodily fluid that he never cared to contemplate again. Not in regards to the Joker. It had escaped his notice up until now as the Joker was always filthy, but now that he considered it, the man had been uncharacteristically clean at the time of his imprisonment.

Being covered in filth couldn't bode well for the injuries, or morale, at least as far as Crane was concerned. Bruce found himself wondering why he cared at all about the man's comfort level, but it was never a good idea to make a dangerous, unpredictable psychotic more unhappy than necessary. Even if he was medicated to the point of being about as harmful as a cereal box.

Still, it wasn't as if he could just bring them into one of the bathrooms of the mansion. And there wasn't any sort of shower in the caves, unless he wanted to let them jump into freezing cave water. Somehow he doubted that would go over well. Come to think of it, there wasn't even an emergency shower. He needed to remedy that.

While he was thinking it over, the arguing had stopped. He'd just become aware of the deafening silence in the room when Crane spoke, apparently taking his lack of an answer as a refusal. "Look, I'm not suggesting that you let me waltz into your master bath and use all your hot water, all right? I'd take a sponge and a bucket of hot water, at the moment. The water doesn't even have to be hot. You don't have to give me a towel, if you don't want to. Or even soap." He swallowed hard, and Bruce imagined that last one had pained him to say. "But if I don't do something, I'm going to lose my mind.

"It's not as if I have any chemicals. I can't do something deadly or incapacitating to your water supply, especially if you don't give me access to running water. And no, I cannot make fear toxin out of soap. The most harmful thing I could possibly do with it is get it in your eyes, and I'm not stupid enough to try that."

"That's debatable."

"Go to hell, Joker."

The Joker tsked, as if genuinely disappointed and hurt by the insult. "I bought him a pony," he said, turning to Batman. "And this is how he treats me in return."

"You did not buy it," Crane snapped, before straightening up. It seemed thoughts regarding hygiene had gone out of his head, for the moment. "Whatever happened to my horse, anyway?"

"Since the police couldn't find the actual owner—"

"I know where the guy's at!" the Joker said, raising his hand. "Or, most of him. It's been a while, I'm not sure where all the pieces went, anymore."

It was so typically Joker that Batman didn't have the energy to be visibly disgusted anymore. He went on. "Since the police couldn't find the owner, they gave the horse to his daughter, along with all his other belongings. She ended up auctioning him off."

"To whom?" Crane looked more concerned over the fate of the horse than he had about anything else since becoming Batman's captive, and that was saying something.

"Me. I'm boarding him in a stable. A reputable one," he added, before Crane could ask. He took out another alcohol wipe, began attending to the Joker's many injuries. "And I'll get you soap and water as soon as you're back in separate cells."

Crane didn't thank him, and Batman hadn't expected him to. Crane nodded instead, and began inching away from the Joker, who was clearly enjoying having his wounds cleaned. He moved about half a foot before the Joker grabbed onto his wrist to keep him there.

* * *

"Do we have any buckets, Alfred?" he asked, leaning in the doorway of the surveillance room.

"May I ask what for, sir?" He glanced at Bruce before returning his attention to the security monitors. Bruce wondered, as he had so many times in the past few days, how his butler could spend hour after hour in here and still keep the mansion looking spotless. It made no sense; though that didn't stop him from feeling grateful about it.

"Washing. I, uh, forget about that, what with everything else going on." It should have been his last concern, considering the chaos his life had become in last two hours or so, but he couldn't help but feel guilt over that.

"Ah. Well, I hadn't." Alfred stood, with a final look at the security monitors. "I'll get the water and other things; you get the clothes."

"Clothes?" It didn't surprise him in the slightest that Alfred had thought of this where he had not, or that he hadn't mentioned it to him. Alfred tended to sit back unless his opinion was asked for, or so strong that he couldn't contain it. He imagined it might be frustrating to someone not used to the man, but Bruce enjoyed having the freedom to make his own mistakes. There'd be no Batman otherwise, after all.

"I'd assume their clothing is as dirty as they are by this point, sir. I thought you might give them something of yours until what they have is washed?" Off Bruce's expression, he added, "We can burn them once their things are cleaned if it bothers you that much, Master Wayne."

He couldn't help but smile at that. "Like you did with the Joker's dress?"

"Precisely, sir."

He reflected, as he made his way upstairs to his closet, that he was really going to have to look up their clothing sizes in the Arkham files and buy them a few things, if they were going to be here for long. He didn't want to put forth the effort, not for two enemies, but nor did he want them in his clothes. The Joker was like a living virus; infecting and corrupting everything he touched, even inanimate fabric.

And he wasn't sure he had anything small enough to fit Crane.

His clothes from his college years, he supposed, were the best bet. He'd only been an inch or so shorter then, but far thinner. He'd been toned before going to the League of Shadows, but much less. As luck would have it, a few of his things from that time had survived the fire that had consumed the mansion, though not many.

He returned downstairs to find Alfred in the kitchen, filling a bucket with steaming water. On the floor beside him sat another few buckets, a stack of towels that looked brand new, washcloths, two bars of soap, and a tarp.

Bruce nudged the last of the items with his foot. "What's this for?"

"To keep water from getting all over the floor, sir. I thought that would be an unnecessary safety hazard."

_In more ways than one_. "And this?" There were two small plastic cups alongside the towels, filled with a cream that was white and, as he discovered upon picking it up, foul-smelling.

"Facial depilatory. I didn't think you'd trust them with razors. Just don't let them eat it."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Cracking one of the few smiles that had graced his face since this mess began, he took the handle of a bucket in either hand, and began his first trip to the elevator.

* * *

_He got the Band-Aid on my hair_. Jonathan brushed his fingers against the end of the butterfly bandage, annoyed. He wanted to pull it off and redo it, but he might reopen the wound by trying, and he'd prefer not to have another scar. And it might not stick the second time. Still. How could the man run and fight so gracefully in all that armor, but be unable to put a bandage on correctly?

Life made no sense.

The Batman had taken the Joker back to his own cell after bandaging his wounds. He'd removed the gauze and tape already on the man's face—soaked through with blood after their fight—to reveal a bleeding, oozing, infected wound. Jonathan didn't know what had caused it, and he felt he could go a long time without knowing. Yet another reason to keep the bandage on; he didn't anything remotely like that to happen to him.

That didn't make the damn thing any less annoying.

_Oh, get over it. You have no sense of priority at all, do you?_

_You know, for the one companion who's meant to understand me better than anyone else, you're a jerk._

_No, I'm honest. Having a fit over your hair being a bit out of place when you're a captive of the goddamn Batman and completely at both his and the Joker's mercy is one of the stupidest things I've ever heard._

All right, so he had a point there. _You don't have to be so blunt about it._

_Yes, I do. Trust me, for a psychiatrist, you really don't pick up on little things._

There was no point in arguing further. It would just put him on bad terms with the only person here that he didn't completely want to eviscerate. _What do you think the Joker's planning?_

_Something that involves either using you as bait or a shield._

_That's optimistic._

_That's honest. And why does he care how many pills you have left, anyway?_

_Maybe he wants to overdose on them so he'll be taken to a hospital? It'd be easier to escape from._

Scarecrow didn't offer his thoughts in reply, as the door opened and Batman came in, buckets and other supplies in hand. He set most of them on the floor, still holding a tarp and a few items of clothing, which he handed to Crane.

"What's this?" He unfolded the long-sleeved T-shirt on top of the stack and examined it. It was a garish shade of orange, reading 'Princeton' across the chest in black lettering. He recalled, from the many news reports chronicling Bruce Wayne's return to Arkham, that he had attended Princeton before dropping out.

"I thought you'd want your clothes washed," the Batman said, spreading the tarp out of the floor. "So I brought you those in the mean time."

So he was wearing Bruce Wayne's hand-me-downs. He felt whatever remained of his dignity dissolve. "I can't exactly change with the chains on." He was struck with the sudden realization that this little experience would involve changing in front of the Batman. This time it felt as if part of his soul had dissolved.

_And this after you made such a big deal about having access to water._

_Shut up. Are you saying you want him gawking at us?_

Scarecrow sighed. _Would you like me to take control?_

_Right, as if you'd do things properly._

_Well, that's nice. All these years and you don't trust me to wash your body. I live with you, genius, I know your obsessive standards for cleanliness._

_And ignore them. I'll do this, thank you very much._

The Batman pulled a key from somewhere on his belt and undid the cuffs, handing Crane a plastic cup full of some sort of lotion which, upon catching the odor, he realized was a depilatory. "Use that first."

"Why?" He eyed it cautiously, amazed that the Bat would allow him access to any sort of chemical.

"Because I have to watch you when you're using that."

Implying that he wouldn't be watching the rest of the time? Thank God for small favors. He nodded, spread it across his face. The scent didn't bother him—this was the method of hair removal used at Arkham, so he'd had time to adjust to it during his many incarcerations. He'd come to prefer it, actually, given that it didn't have to be done as often as shaving and as such was better suited to a life on the run from the GPD. He waited until five minutes had passed, counting the seconds to be sure. Captivity had an effect on one's sense of time, he knew. After the fifth minute had passed, he put leaned over one of the buckets, put his hands in the water—very warm but not painfully so—and brought it to his face, wiping the cream away.

The Batman watched until all traces of it were gone from his face and hands, then turned his back. For a moment Crane wondered why he bothered to stay down here if he wasn't going to supervise, and then remembered, as he slid his shirt over his head, that he was unchained. Looking the other way or not, he still didn't feel comfortable fully exposed, and decided to leave the pants on until he was done with the upper half of his body.

It wasn't until he was drying his hair—the Band-Aid having thankfully come off of its own accord during the washing—that he realized he felt human for the first time in days. And it wasn't until he'd put on that hideous orange shirt—he had to roll back the sleeves three times to use his hands—and taken off his pants that Scarecrow spoke up again.

_You do know that he's getting all of this on camera, right?_

He very nearly choked on his own saliva, and began scrubbing his body as quickly as he possibly could while still being thorough, pulling the Batman's jeans on the second he'd dried off. The jeans, he hated even more than the shirt, if that was possible. He didn't wear jeans to begin with, and these were both too wide and too long. Of course there was no belt.

He moved off of the tarp and back onto the mattress, unsure of how to get the Batman's attention. He settled for clearing his throat. The Bat turned, and he didn't quite know what the look on the man's face was, but he knew that he did not like it.

* * *

He looked so _young_.

It was a stupid observation, given that unlike the Joker, Jonathan Crane had never obscured his age with makeup, but his youth had never been more pronounced than when he was sitting on the mattress, staring at Batman with large, apprehensive, and hateful eyes. He looked like a child dressing up in his older brother's clothes, and it struck Bruce that he'd only been twenty-nine when he was the administrator of Arkham Asylum. Once again, as with the Joker, he felt a sense of wasted potential. How did someone so brilliant and talented managed to completely ruin his life so early on?

Not that there was time to reflect on that. Helpless as he looked, Crane was still a dangerous psychotic, and being around him unrestrained for any length of time was asking for trouble. Besides, the Joker still needed to have water brought to him, to ensure that his wounds were really cleaned. He crossed the cell, snapped the cuffs back into place. The bandage over his head wound had come off, so Batman put another one over the injury, managing not to get it in his hair this time.

He had nothing to say to the man—nothing he could think of, anyway—and Crane apparently felt the same, so he folded the tarp, gathered everything together, and made his way outside of the cell.

* * *

AN: Cillian Murphy was twenty-nine when he filmed _Batman Begins._ I'm assuming his character was the same age.


	30. Monsters

AN: Sorry about the delay! All my classes seem to have something due or some sort of test this week. I'll try to update Wednesday and Thursday, but I don't know about Friday as I'll be heading home for Easter, and I have a project to work on over the weekend. I will try, though.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

"So, do you take that costume off and put it back on every time you come down here, or do you just lounge around your mansion like that?" the Joker asked, trying to unwind himself from the tangled mess he'd already made of the chains. "'Cause I imagine those arm spikes must be _hell _on the upholstery."

He wondered, as he spread the tarp out, what the clown was playing at this time. The Joker hated knowing who was behind the mask, as he'd said, hated that knowledge so badly he'd been willing to try fracturing his skull to remove it. As false as the Joker's emotional states often were, Bruce knew he hadn't been faking his shock and revulsion when he'd seen Batman without the cowl. And now he was making comments on the state of Wayne Manor's furniture? He'd chalk it up to insanity, but difficult as it was to see, there was a method to the Joker's madness. Usually.

He straightened, turned to regard the Joker. The Joker stared back at him. It was odd how inhuman his eyes looked. They were more normal in terms of color than they'd ever looked before; browner without the black around to darken them. In spite of that, the look in them was feral as always, tracking Batman's movement like a tiger would watch its prey. That, combined with the oddness of seeing his typical smirk without the makeup, almost distracted Bruce enough to keep him from seeing the flush across the Joker's cheeks.

He was still feverish.

Obviously he'd still be sick, given that he was he'd only had one shot of antibiotics, but Bruce had forgotten that fact. It'd been easy to forget, in the wake of the madness that followed the removal of the makeup. Even so, the infection persisted. He'd need another injection later in the day, and while the drugs in his body were fighting the sepsis now, the fever was still around. The thirst might be as well. Batman noted that his water supply was gone. He'd have to bring him more, once this was over.

Despite the fever he must be feeling, the Joker was sitting nonchalantly as ever, expression so casual it almost seemed deliberate. _Is he trying to hide the symptoms?_ But that didn't make sense. The Joker knew he wouldn't withhold water based on their interactions last night and this morning, and his makeup was already gone. There was nothing more for him to lose, so there'd be no reason to hide his condition.

Unless he didn't want to admit weakness.

He held out the cell phone. The Joker took it and dialed, his eyes never leaving the Batman's even as he spoke. Which wasn't unusual, when it came to the Clown Prince of Crime, but he was hardly even blinking. It occurred to Bruce that the glitter to his eyes wasn't just the usual mania. He looked angry, and he was making a point of keeping eye contact.

Maybe he'd been wrong about hiding weakness. Maybe the Joker was just pissed.

Batman had, in essence, completely emasculated him. Held him down and taken the one thing in the entire world he seemed to have any attachment for. The two things, actually, as removing the mask—even though that hadn't been by choice—probably amounted to the same thing, in the clown's mind. He'd tried concussing himself the last time he'd realized the Batman's identity, after all. Bruce was surprised he was only glaring, and not violently lashing out.

Maybe he would be, if not for the fever. Perhaps the dig at Batman's identity had been made to throw him off balance, so he wouldn't note the weakened state.

The Joker snapped the phone shut, the click seeming to echo in the silence of the room. He held it out, tightened his grip when Batman put his hand on it. For a few seconds they both held it, not quite struggling but neither giving ground, before the Joker let go and immediately opened his mouth to speak. "Ya know how cold it is in a cave, Bats?"

"Sixty." Outside of the cells, it was colder, but the walls were insulated enough to raise the temperature a few degrees.

For the first time since Batman had entered the room, the Joker's eyes left him, flicking to the two buckets of water sitting on the tarp. "So, you want me to get pneumonia on top of the sepsis, is that it? I don't have enough problems with, uh, my face falling off?"

"You want to be covered in blood?"

"I'm kinda used to that by this point, Batsy."

"It'll make the infection worse." He didn't know why he bothered to try reasoning with the man. It couldn't be plainer that he was beyond rationality, out of both madness and spite. And yet he kept on trying. They said perseverance was a trait to be admired. Then again, they also said that doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result was a sign of insanity.

The Joker rolled his eyes. "I'm _sure _you're concerned about my safety and not, uh, getting an attractive blond twenty-something to st_rip_tease for ya."

He found that he was becoming desensitized to the Joker's insinuations and insults. He couldn't tell if that was a good thing, or something else to worry about. Without responding, he knelt down and unchained the Joker, ankles first, then wrists. He stepped back immediately, readying himself for attack, but the Joker didn't lash out. He brought one hand to his wrist, as if to massage it, then stopped when he touched the bandage there, and smirked.

"Let me see if I've got this straight. You spent all that time wrapping me up in Jonny-boy's cell, after you refused to let him clean his own wounds, and _now _you want me to wash the blood off. The water from which is gonna make the bandages all wet and useless, as, uh, water tends to do."

He paused, as if waiting for Batman to verify this fact. He did not.

"Now, if I didn't know any better, and I _don't_, I'd say you _liked _touching super villains. Or mental patients, whatever your kink is."

"Is that the best you can come up with?"

"Is that a challenge, Batsy?" He slid off the bed, and onto the tarp, still eyeing the water without touching it. Bruce wondered if he could stand. He'd seemed all right carrying Crane, but that had been the adrenaline of the moment. Certainly he'd been shakier upon their return to his cell, though that could have been due to blood loss or the several yards of gauze wrapped around his ankles.

That was how Crane got out of his cell, Bruce reflected. Removing the gauze. He'd have to keep a tight watch on how the Joker was healing, tighten the cuffs each time the swelling from the injuries went down in the slightest bit. Oh, he'd be looking forward to _that_.

There was no one to blame but himself, though. He'd injured the Joker and this was his responsibility. He held out the depilatory, feeling wary as he did. The Joker seemed the type to shove it in his eyes just to make Batman's life that much more difficult.

"Is this _Nair_, Bats?" The Joker seemed genuinely amused, without malice, as he took the cup, sticking his fingers inside. "Yep, same stuff they use at Arkham. Don't have a thing for facial hair, then?"

"Either use it or don't."

"See, this is why I'm always going on about your communication skills." The Joker began spreading the cream across his face. Now that Batman actually looked, the clown had stubble just as Crane did, but it was blond as the hair on his head—before it had gotten blood-soaked—and didn't grow on the scars, making it easier to miss. With the lower face of his face covered in white cream and his eyes wild as ever, he looked like the mad dog he so often compared himself to. It was far more unnerving than his insults, and than it should have been.

"I ate this one time," the Joker said casually, as if the two were having a relaxed discussion as friends as opposed to a one-sided one as prisoner and captor. "At Arkham. It tastes even worse than it smells. Didn't actually swallow before they made me spit it out, but it did eat into my tongue a bit." He shrugged. "It wasn't that bad. You can make your tongue bleed by eating too many, uh, sour candies and stuff, so it wasn't like this ungodly agony I'd never felt before."

There was silence again, broken only by splashing as the Joker began to wash off his face. After a few minutes he sat up, wiping his face with a towel. Batman waited for him to begin changing before he'd turn around. The Joker stared back, expression unreadable.

It really was a deafening silence. And an agonizingly long one, as well.

"So." The Joker spread his legs out in front of him, leaning back on his arms. "Lovely weather we're having, isn't it? I mean, I haven't been out to enjoy it much, but—"

"Are you bathing or aren't you?"

"Yes."

What did that even mean? "Well?"

"Well what?" the Joker asked, wrinkling his nose in confusion.

He could feel his blood pressure rising. "Why aren't you doing it?"

"The thing about fevers, Batsy, is that they tend to zap you of energy. And, uh, coordination. Like that I'd need to say, undress without help."

It would seem he'd spoken too soon when he said the Joker's insinuations had stopped affecting him. "You walked around fine earlier."

"That was then."

"Your fever was higher then."

The Joker shrugged, licked his lips. "Life's full of mysteries, isn't it?"

"Change."

"Let's see…I go to a strange young man's house, and he locks me up, takes my dress, beats me, and now wants to watch me strip. Hmm. I'm gonna have to say no, unless we get a, uh, chaperone. Or a chastity belt."

In a way, his ability to get under people's skin in such a short amount of time was impressive. Admitting to that didn't at all alleviate the urge to shatter his jaw. "Joker—"

"Hey." He held his hands up in defense, eyes wide. He was trying, Bruce guessed, to look innocent, but innocence was about as likely on the Joker as modesty or restraint. "I don't have the coordination. Like I said. Now, you can either sit there and yell at me over something I've got no control over—that's, uh, _your _fault, if you wanna pin blame—or you can help me out of these clo—"

Batman responded by pouring out one of the buckets over the Joker's head.

* * *

"Ya know, I think anger management might just _might _be something you need to work on as well," the Joker informed him, while Batman glared at the wall so hard his eyes seemed about to start boring through the cinderblocks. "I had my suspicions when you ripped the chains outta the wall, but the water thing? Totally proves it."

Turning his back on the Joker, even if the clown was feverish and soaked and naked, was probably not the brightest thing he'd done today. Oh well. He wasn't going to give the man the satisfaction of being looked at. And anyway, much as he was wishing to be deaf at the moment, he could hear the Joker behind him. If the clown tried anything, he'd hear it coming.

"Bats. Hey, _Bats._ I'm talking to you."

He tried counting the cinderblocks, and had made it to two before that loud, nasal voice broke his line of concentration.

"See, this is why you've got anger issues in the first place. Ya keep everything bottled up. It's unhealthy. You're gonna get ulcers. And these bandages are totally coming off. Just so you know."

"I'll put more on," he said, teeth clenched.

"You ignored what I said before that. You're bottling up again." He could hear the Joker's lips smack. "You oughta just let your emotions out, ya know. You'd be better adjusted. It's what I do."

He almost laughed, at that one. "Because you're well adjusted."

"'Least I know that I'm a monster. But I guess that's just one more thing ya need to come out of the closet about."

And the urge to laugh was immediately gone. "I am nothing like you."

"Riiiiight. 'Cause beating a man while he's _chained up_ and your prisoner just screams of, uh, virtue and justice and…whatever else it is you're always going on about. Is it abstinence? I don't recall."

He didn't have an argument against that, and they both knew it. "We are _not _comparable." It seemed to him that his voice had never sounded more like a growl than it did at that moment. "I fight to defend this city and protect the people. You try to destroy lives and ruin Gotham because you feel like i—"

"I'm decent, Batsy. You can turn around."

He did. His clothes were also loose on the Joker, but not nearly as badly as they'd been on Crane. He still didn't like the sight of it. The Joker in his clothes brought them too close together, just as the Joker without his paint made him look too human. He almost wished they hadn't burned Rachel's dress, if it meant not having to see the Joker this way. He shoved his apprehension aside, chained the Joker back up.

He was rubbing alcohol over the infected facial wound when the Joker spoke up again. "Ya know, just 'cause we're on opposing sides, it doesn't mean we're not alike."

"Yes, it does." He scrubbed harder.

The Joker didn't react. "No, it doesn't, Batsy. Think about it. You're not who ya are because you want to _help _people. Not deep down. You want to hurt, destroy. Put fear into people, that's why you dress up in what looks a hell of a lot like, uh, devil ears, and pop out on unsuspecting criminals like a Jack-in-the-box. Ya _say _that you're trying to protect Gotham, but all you really wanna do is get revenge. Tear people apart. Just. Like. Me."

God_damn _the clown and his unholy talent for hitting people's weak points repeatedly. It was as if he knew the struggle that Bruce was fighting every moment, between using the monster he'd created to help people and becoming lost in that monster. He thought of Batman as a positive influence. More than anything, he wanted to believe that. But there was always doubt and the Joker was clamping onto it like a leech. "You don't know anything about me."

"But I do, Bats." He raised his hand, suddenly, took Batman's wrist, above the spikes. Not hard; if it had been hard, he would have pulled away. But the Joker's grip was oddly restrained, and the incongruity of the clown doing anything gently froze him for a moment. "I know you better than you know yourself, because I can embrace the darkness you hide from.

"See, you were right, when you said we're different. But it's only one difference. A huge one, yeah, but just one little hurdle to jump before you'd start down the path of being just like me. We're both outlaws. We're both in costumes, with," here he swallowed, "_people _underneath. We're both _monsters. _But you cling onto what's left of your humanity, while I embrace what I am."

He lifted Batman's hand, ran it down one of the scars before Bruce could break his grip. "The only difference is, when you take off the mask at the end of day, you think what's underneath is human, that the darkness comes off with the cowl. But being a monster?" He tapped the scar he'd put Batman's hand on. "It doesn't come off."

* * *

AN: Nair is a popular depilatory for women.


	31. Humanity

AN: I have over four hundred reviews! I've never felt so flattered. This is probably going to go straight to my head, but I'm ecstatic nonetheless.

Thank you all so much for your reviews!

* * *

"You are not going out tonight, sir."

It was ridiculous, and Bruce knew it. He was an adult, he ran the most influential company in all of Gotham, and he was the Batman. Those sorts of things gave a man power. Authority. Certainly the ability to go out and do what he wanted, regardless of whether or not his butler approved.

Yet here he was, Alfred blocking his way to the piano used to gain entry to the cave's elevator, and he knew, even before he opened his mouth to argue, that he'd been defeated. Such was the old man's power. Bruce supposed it was because Alfred had been his caretaker since the death of his parents; his father every bit as much as his dad had been, though in a different way. He'd never realized how much he'd depended on the man until he lived without him for seven years, and he'd never realized how much sway the butler held over him until he became Batman, and they had moments like this.

"Alfred, the city—"

"Can take care of itself for one night. Whereas you, Master Wayne, are falling apart."

"I'm—"

Alfred gave him a pointed look and the excuse died on his lips. "You, sir, are running yourself ragged. And your situation is stressful enough at present without swinging around Gotham, apprehending madmen in leotards."

"Bodysuits."

"It amounts to the same thing." He did not give Bruce time to point out that only one or two of the villains actually dressed in that manner. "In your rush to get to the cave, I don't suppose you happened to look out a window? The conditions aren't exactly conducive to criminal activity."

_Does he have to be so logical?_ "The rain won't stop every—"

"I wouldn't quite call it rain, sir. I believe the weather stations are using terms closer to severe storm, tornado watch, and torrential downpour." He glanced over one shoulder toward the cabinet that held the elevator. "I was just in the cave myself, to ensure the generator will work should we lose power again."

"It still won't stop everyone."

"No. But it will make it easy for you to fall, or injure yourself, in a struggle."

"I can handle myself." He appreciated Alfred's concern. He'd admit that; respect and appreciation for the man, along with love, were the only things keeping him from shouldering his way to the cave, with or without Alfred's approval. But while the desire to protect him was appreciated, it was also smothering. It wasn't out of a sense of duty that he needed to patrol so badly. He just needed to be out there, under the mask.

Sometimes it seemed that Batman, more than Bruce Wayne, was becoming what defined him. When he sat back and reflected on that, it seemed impossible, at first. But then he would remember Rachel's comment about his true face, and wonder if it wasn't a foregone conclusion, and he was only delaying the inevitable. Disturbing as the thought usually was, after the Joker's words at noon—the clown had been asleep when he'd brought him dinner and injected the antibiotics again—all he wanted was to be back under the cowl. Go out, fight crime, as if that would reaffirm that he was _stopping _monsters, and not becoming one.

The only issue being that Batman was the one who tended to lose control.

"I know that you can, sir." There was a small, quiet change in Alfred's voice that caught Bruce's attention, and he found himself really looking at the butler for the first time since the conversation had begun. "I just ask that you don't have to for one night."

He was worried. That much was plain; it wasn't obvious, but if one knew how to look properly, as Bruce did, it was written all over his face. It wasn't worry for Bruce's physical safety, however. It was the same sort of concern for his wellbeing that Bruce himself felt, underneath the majority of his mind that wanted nothing more than to don the Kevlar and make rounds across the city.

Alfred knew him as well as he knew himself, and probably better than that, because Alfred could observe with more detachment. That, along with the man's life experiences, was why Bruce held his counsel in such high regard. Alfred almost surely knew of the struggle between monster and man that had been waging inside him since noon, and if he thought it better for Batman to remain Bruce for the night, that was the wisest course of action to be taken.

"I'll stay in."

Alfred didn't quite look relieved, because he was too stoic and professional to let his emotions show that clearly, but the worry was, for the most part, gone. "Thank you, sir."

He felt a sense of relief, both for the part of himself that was mostly Bruce Wayne and for not causing his butler anymore undue strain. Most of him, however, still wanted to go find a few criminals and beat them senseless.

He reflected that this was more than likely unhealthy.

Alfred stepped aside and walked to the door, and Bruce, after a moment's hesitation, followed. _I can't let the Joker affect me this way anymore. _After all, what did he know? So they both knew what it was like to have darkness inside of them. So what? The Joker focused exclusively on Batman, but there was more to him than that. Bruce Wayne wasn't worthless, and he wasn't going to let himself be talked into thinking so again.

* * *

_I spy with my little eye…something gray._

_The wall. _Jonathan leaned back, his head resting against the wall opposite the one he was staring at. _It's always the wall. Or the mattress. Or sheets, or chains. This game doesn't work if there's such a limited number of things to guess, you know._

_Well, what do you propose we do? Twenty questions again?_

_God, no._ The first fifteen rounds had been maddening enough. Scarecrow had the irritating habit of losing count of the questions halfway through the game, thus rendering the entire thing pointless. _I'm losing it. I'm really losing it. I'll need to go back to Arkham once this is all over. If it ever is._

_Don't be so melodramatic. You haven't lost it yet and you know it._

_I'm getting there. _He realized he was biting his nails, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. Anything was better than sitting here with nothing to do, even if it meant chewing on his fingertips. _You cannot deny that I'm getting there._

_I'll say you're getting there when you start seeing pink elephants, or hearing voices in your head or something. Pull yourself together—_

The door opened. For a moment, Crane didn't recognize the figure standing there, before he stepped fully into the light of the cell. Bruce Wayne. No—the Batman. But without the mask. Or the armor. Dressed like a human being, something Crane so rarely thought of him as that it was unsettling to see.

_Why is he dressed that way?_

_And beyond that, why is he here now?_

That was true. Crane had been sure it was nearing midnight, as he hadn't heard the Batman enter the Joker's cell recently, but the Batman never came into his cell at midnight. Had he fallen asleep without realizing it, and it was morning now? Or had he lost the ability to keep track of time? Fantastic. He was truly going mad. It was only a matter of time before he declared himself Queen Elizabeth I or gouged out his eyes, or something.

But the Batman—or Bruce Wayne, he found he had no idea what to call him without the armor—didn't appear to have any sort of food, which would indicate that it was morning. Perhaps he hadn't completely lost it. Or perhaps he'd already gone off the deep end and the Batman-who-was-also-Bruce-Wayne wasn't even here. "What do you want?"

"To see if you're all right. How's your head?" He wasn't even using the Bat voice. Crane should have been grateful for that, he knew, that growl was horrifying, but it was even more unnerving to see this person acting so…ordinary.

"Why do you want to know?" His captor moved toward the mattress and he shifted back slightly, though there was nowhere to go.

"I'd rather not deal with two septic criminals."

"It's fine. Wonderful. Couldn't be better."

His slightly manic answer didn't stop Bruce Wayne—Batman—from kneeling down in front of him. "Can I see?"

He wanted to make some scathing remark about how he was the one with a doctorate, and he'd recognize an infection long before a dropout would, but he didn't want to be hit. Besides, he didn't trust himself to open his mouth without going into a terrified rant, and he wasn't going to give the man the satisfaction of knowing that he was equally afraid of him without the mask. So he shrugged instead, trying not to jerk away when he felt a hand on him, pulling the bandage back. It occurred to him that the vigilante's hands were warm. He'd never thought of that, cold and hard as the Kevlar tended to feel.

Bruce Wayne's eyes didn't meet his, flicking around a bit past that as they studied the wound. The look in them was detached, businesslike, and entirely Batman. Well, that settled the issue of what to call him, then. "Why—" he spoke without meaning to and cut himself off, brown eyes moving to regard his own. "Why aren't you wearing the Batsuit?"

"What's the point?" He put the bandage back into place, pressed down gently to reaffix it. "You both know who I am, and it's a waste of time and energy to put it on every time I come down here."

"The—" He caught himself before he could say 'The Joker's not going to like it.' Damn medication.

"Yes?"

"Nothing."

"Is something wrong?" He looked almost concerned, which was ridiculously.

_Besides that you're keeping me imprisoned with no intellectual stimulation whatsoever and I'm slowly going mad as a result?_

_You'd better answer, Jonathan. I don't think he's leaving until you do._

_Hell. _He cast about for something to say and, of course, ended up blurting out the first idiotic thing that came to mind. "Why do you get so angry if we call it a 'Batmobile' when 'Batsuit' doesn't bother you?"

There was a horrible pause in which he was sure he would be hit.

"Does everyone at Arkham just sit around and come up with names for my things?"

"On slow days."

* * *

He was expecting a screaming fit from the Joker. Shrieking, thrashing around, maybe even trying to throw the mattress. He'd made sure the cell phone was in the front pocket, so if he was somehow knocked over, he wouldn't land on it and break the thing.

He had not expected the Joker to do nothing more than sit there and gape at him, but that's exactly what happened.

It occurred to him that the Joker was acting out of sorts, even if most of it could be explained away by the sickness, such as begging for water. Still, he'd never seen the clown so uncharacteristically quiet as he'd been through most of the day. He'd even admitted to being human, though that had been to prove a point about Batman. If it was the result of illness, the Joker needed to get sick more often.

He pressed the phone into the Joker's unmoving hand. "Call."

"Bats." His voice was hoarse, but not from thirst. "What the hell are y—"

"Call."

He did, though his widened, confused eyes never left Bruce's face, and his voice shook for a second, when the response came through on the other line. After that second, however, something seemed to change in him. The confusion—the fear—went out of his eyes, and he visibly relaxed, face forming his trademark smirk as he hung up. "So, this your latest plan? Withhold the sexy Kevlar as torture?"

"It's not worth the effort."

"Effort?" He stretched the word so much it was almost a purr. "And what effort would that be, Batsy? To give the monster inside a recognizable face?"

"To put on armor made out of separating plates on and paint around my eyes every time I come down here. Give me the phone."

He didn't. "Sure you haven't done some soul searching since our last rendezvous? Haven't found your soul to be a little…absent?"

"Don't compare yourself to me, Joker." He should have just pried the phone out of the Joker's hand. It would have been easier that way. But fever or not, the Joker hadn't done anything but sleep since noon, so he might be full of energy. Without the armor between them, he didn't want to risk it unless there was no other choice.

The Joker clicked his tongue. "And we're back to _that_ again. My therapist had a name for that too: regression. Did you or did you not ad_mit _to being like me when last we spoke?"

"I didn't. You did all the talking."

"And you _didn't _interrupt. 'Cause ya couldn't." He giggled. "Because we're both monsters, and, uh, good for you for realizing you don't need the mask to let your wild side—"

"Do you know what's similar between us?" His voice was quiet, barely audible over the Joker's laughter, yet the clown heard and shut up all the same. "Because there's less than you think."

"En_ligh_ten me, Bats."

"We both wear costumes, and we both have a dark side. That's it." The Joker opened his mouth to speak and he cut him off. "No, that's it, no matter what your demented mind seems to think. I keep my darkness in check. I use the fear I inspire to help people. You use yours to terrorize."

"To make life more interesting," said the Joker, looking completely bored.

"To ruin lives."

"Their lives don't mean a damn thing anyway."

He continued as if the Joker had not spoken. "You're ruled by your dark side and you don't so much as try to regulate it. I doubt you could if you wanted to, anyway."

"You say that as if it's a _bad _thing, Batsy." The Joker yawned, stretched out on the mattress like a cat, phone still in hand. "Life's so much more _fun _when you realize that things like life and morals and, uh, goodness aren't important. I lost my light side _long _ago and I don't miss it in the slightest."

"You wouldn't."

He pouted. "Aw, you're hurting my feelings."

"And you didn't lose it, you just keep it buried under all the paint."

"I'm not keeping anything buried, Bats. This?" The Joker stroked a long white finger over his cheek. "This is _nothing._ It's a blank slate. There's _nobody here._ And ya know why? Because it's all a scam. Truth, and apple pie, and loving thy neighbor. Total crap. It's just a bunch of lies we tell ourselves to try and find meaning in a harsh, indecent world. Empty. Which is why, should one be, uh, honest with oneself, it falls apart like a house of cards and flies off like dust in the wind."

He smirked again, straightened up, and extended the hand with the phone. "You call me a monster like it's something to be ashamed of. We're all monsters, Bats. Humanity's the myth, and I'm the only one bright enough to see it."

"So humanity's a myth," Bruce said, taking the phone, and making his way toward the door, eyes on the Joker all the while, "all of this is a meaningless joke. Then why did you scream so much when I took the makeup off?"

He'd entered the access code and stepped outside before the Joker could respond. He could hear him yelling, indistinctly, inside the cell as he continued, but he didn't turn back. He'd finally gotten the last word, and he was going to enjoy it.

He went to the mansion to find that Alfred had already gone to bed, and for the first time in the past four nights, he didn't head to the surveillance room. Alfred was right, the stress was getting to him, and for once in his life he was going to get a decent night's sleep without feeling guilty for it.

Had Bruce gone to the surveillance room, he would have seen that the light bulb in the Joker cell had burned out not ten minutes after he left, leaving the Joker stuck in the cell with no light. He didn't, however, and as such the Joker was left in the dark all night.


	32. Six and a Half Hours

AN: Thanks for all the reviews!

* * *

It was seven minutes into the first hour when the light went out.

The hour had begun exactly at midnight, when he took the cell phone from the Batman's hand and dialed, stunned enough by the lack of costume to stutter as he spoke, something he never did. Stammering because his thoughts were moving too fast to express them all was one thing. Stuttering out of surprise was another, and he resolved never to do it again. It made him look like he was weak. Like this affected him.

It didn't. No matter what Bats seemed to think with his stupid comment about the makeup, he was _not _affected by the human face underneath. He was only stunned by Batman's audacity, the idea that Batsy actually thought by coming down here without the mask, he'd prove something about his humanity. That was all.

And to add insult to injury, Bats had then had the gall to suggest that he was afraid to be seen without his face paint because he was afraid of the _person _underneath. That was, without a doubt, the stupidest insinuation he'd ever heard, and that meant a lot, considering all the idiotic theories he put up with from the doctors in Arkham. He'd shouted as much at the Bat's retreating back, but the coward had wandered off without even listening.

Bastard.

He was _not _afraid of the person under the paint. There wasn't a person underneath. There was a body, yes, but it might as well have been an animate corpse. There was only the Joker, and the makeup was just a tool to make sure that the rest of the world realized that. It wasn't a security blanket, as the Bat—who was quickly proving himself to be an idiot, sadly—seemed to think. Whatever the body had been before the Joker was gone, reduced to a physical form and a few flickers of static. The _only _thing he'd been worried about when it came to losing his makeup was that Bats would be stupid and do exactly what he was doing now; assigning some deeper meaning to the fact that he didn't want it off.

There was no deeper meaning, because there was no deeper person. Just like the only reason he disliked seeing Batman without the mask—his face as Bruce was undeniably attractive, though not as good as Batman's—was because it was a reminder that Bats still believed in this humanity thing. Not because he was afraid that the symbol he'd based his life around was human underneath it all. He wasn't. Because it was only a myth.

He'd just stopped screaming and was planning the most eloquent way to explain this to Bats when he next visited, when the light flickered out.

Thus began six and a half hours of darkness, give or take seven minutes.

His body responded to the dark before his mind even registered what had happened. He felt cold suddenly, a cold that went all the way through his body, as if someone had poured ice water over his insides. And then his mind caught up with his body, and the cold only got worse.

"God_damn _you, Bats."

He'd cut the lights. He must have. There was no way the power could fail twice in two days, Batman was far too intelligent and cautious to allow for something like that. No, this had to be some calculated effort on the Bat's part. Why? Hadn't he made his point with the makeup dig? This was adding insult to injury when it was completely unnecessary. This was _torture_.

Well, if he was hoping to make the Joker scream, he had another thing coming. Bats couldn't leave him sitting in the dark for too long, not when they both knew he could get out of the chains. Fifteen minutes, maybe, half an hour at the most. Sure, his heart was pounding about four times faster than was probably healthy and he was going cold despite the fever, but he could wait it out. Hell, he'd probably spent about ten minutes now adjusting to the situation.

He found himself hugging his knees to his chest as he sat, waiting. It would look weak when the light came back, he knew that, but he couldn't help it. He didn't know why the darkness held this power over him, and he certainly didn't _want _to know, but it did, and if this made him slightly less panicked, then he'd be perfectly willing to lose face—again—in front of Bats.

Any minute now, the light would be back.

Any minute.

Any minute stretched into two. Then five.

Then what felt like an hour. It had actually been ten minutes, but as the Joker had stopped counting and had no watch—not that he'd be able to see it, anyway—he had no way of knowing how long he'd been here. All he knew was that he was still in the dark, and he was either going to be sick or die of cardiac arrest—maybe both—if he didn't do something.

But he couldn't bring himself to move.

He tried closing his eyes, on the assumption that if he couldn't actually see the darkness, it wouldn't affect him. That was about as helpful as trying to cure radiation sickness by sitting in a nuclear reactor. It wasn't as if closing his eyes in a lit room kept him from knowing that the light was on, and the knowledge that it wasn't affected him every bit as the actual visual.

He closed his eyes so tightly that it hurt. No difference. Why wasn't the light back on yet? This…this wasn't like Batman. This was hell. He'd _lost _the last argument, for all intents and purposes, so why was he being punished like this? Okay, so he'd killed a hell of a lot of people and destroyed more than his fair share of property. That didn't give Mr. Untarnished Symbol of Justice the right to do this. _No one _had the right to do this.

He wondered if this was how the people he'd fucked with felt, and almost retched at the revelation that he even cared.

The sudden and horrible realization struck him that maybe Bats hadn't killed the light. He thought back to that last wonderful moment of brightness, and remembered a loud pop along with the flickering. Come to think of it, there'd been a sudden surge of light at that moment as well, like a filament sparking as it died.

_Oh Jesus Christ._

It could be hours before anyone realized he was stuck in the dark. _Hours._ The thought made bile rise in his throat, which he only barely managed to swallow back before he pulled the paper clips from his mouth, fumbling for the lock on the cuffs. He needed them off. He felt trapped enough by being blind this way; he couldn't handle restraint on top of it.

It was not an easy process, struggling to hold back a panic attack and trying to pick locks in total darkness at the same time. He ended up shoving the wire into his hand more than once, and while the cuts weren't deep and the pain wasn't severe—comforting if anything, at least he knew it was really there, even if he couldn't see it—it didn't exactly speed the process.

By the time he'd succeeded in getting the cuffs off of both his wrists, and his ankles, the second hour had begun.

He felt the urge to touch the wall, assure himself of its presence. It was stupid; he been leaning up against the wall until he'd moved forward to unchain himself. He couldn't help it. It wasn't as if he was thinking logically at this point. He needed solidity, and the chains and mattress, for whatever reason his panicked mind had come up with, weren't working. He turned to touch the wall, stopped before his fingers could make contact. He was struck by the irrational but nonetheless powerful worry that his hand would brush against nothing but air.

He had no idea what he'd do in that circumstance. Die, probably.

He swallowed. Painfully, as dry as his throat was. He lifted his hand again—and found, with muted wonder, that he was still angry his fingers were shaking, through the fear—and reached forward. For a second, there was nothing but air, and then he was touching rough, cold cement. It felt every bit as wonderful as the water had that morning.

He reached out the other hand, pushed it flat against the wall, and stood, slowly. He took the smallest step possible, moving his hands along the wall with him. Then another step, and another, until he was off the mattress. He carried on that way, walking—shuffling—until his hands and feet met the corner, then turned and followed along the wall that way, until he'd made his way around the room. It was comforting, somehow, to know the world was still there. Once he was back on the mattress, he did it again, and again, dragging his hands along the cement as if removing them from the wall would make him lose his location.

In this way the second hour was passed.

He gave up about twenty minutes into the third hour, as touching the walls had stopped providing comfort by then, stopped providing anything but pain from the friction of skin against the cinderblocks. He came to a stop with his hands against steel which, combined with the tiny light of the security console beside it, let him know that he was in front of a door. Jonny's door, as he knew by the fact that this was the wall opposite his mattress.

_Jonny._ The Joker would sooner cooperate with the GPD than admit that he needed help, under ordinary circumstances. This was nowhere near an ordinary circumstance. He brought his hand forward, slammed it against the steel. He was perfectly willing to throw dignity to the wind if it meant the little idiot would come over here and refuse to shut up. Anything to keep him from dwelling on the situation.

The sound of his fist's contact with the door wasn't nearly as loud as he'd hoped. Solid steel apparently wasn't as noisy on impact as a hollow door. Or maybe he wasn't hitting hard enough. He tried it again, with as much force as he could manage. The sound was louder, but not by much. Again. Jonny, as he knew from living with the man, had trouble falling asleep, but once he was out, the end of the world couldn't wake him. The latter seemed to be the case now. He couldn't hear any response from the other room, so he kept at it until he hit hard enough to send pain shooting all the way up to his shoulder. He stopped then, found himself regarding the security console beside the door.

The faint glow from the console should have been comforting, but it was barely enough to illuminate the air around it. Like a mockery of his wish for light. It was enough to faintly illuminate the number keys, but nothing else. The keys. The access code. He didn't know what it was, but he knew from hearing it punched in over and over that it was six digits long. How many combinations could that possibly be?

_A hell of a lot_, the part of his mind that hadn't completely panicked told him, but he didn't care. It wasn't as if he had any better options at this point, and if nothing else, it was a way to occupy himself. He started at 000000, not at all expecting that to work, and made his way up from there. Easier said than done, as his shaking hand kept hitting keys he hadn't mean to press and his less-than-relaxed state made it hard to keep count.

He'd been in the dark for four hours and fifty-one minutes when he reached 693724. That was the number he stopped on, as that was when the static hit.

Why it had waited until now to make its appearance, when the last time the static had been instantaneous with the darkness, the Joker didn't know. He didn't want to know. Had he been a praying man, he'd have been on his knees begging every god in the history of human not to bring the static back the moment he'd realized the light was at. As it was, he only fell to his knees now, after managing to run to the toilet, and vomited. It wasn't the static—it had only been for a few seconds and there hadn't even been pictures—so much as the knowledge that it was back, combined with his previous terror.

He found himself unable to move when he'd finished retching, sitting frozen, waiting for the static to come back. He didn't know why he was waiting. He didn't want it to come back. Yet he knew it was, and he couldn't help but remain there, body tensed as if it could provide the slightest defense against the static. Someone—Jonny? One of his doctors?—had once said that understanding and facing a fear was essential to overcoming it, but he didn't want to overcome this. He didn't want to understand it, he wanted it gone. Or to be unconscious. Or dead.

At this point, the fear was so immense that he'd settle for anything to make it stop.

And then it came back. Multiple times. He had the vaguest recollection of crawling between two of the flashes, and after the second ended he found himself sitting on the mattress, shaking. And then it happened again. He didn't know what had triggered it, but he couldn't make it stop, couldn't do anything but sit and wait for it to be over.

The beginning of the sixth hour was marked by the realization that there was water coming out of his eyes. He couldn't bring himself to be disgusted about that, at this point. All he could do was sit, arms hugging his legs to his chest, and try to wait it out. The periods of static were getting longer and the pictures clearer, and in the moments between he began to feel the overwhelming dread that he'd lose himself to it.

In the last half hour, he found himself trying to make sense of the pictures in the static.

He didn't want to know. Most of the images were bizarre and nightmarish as ever, but he couldn't help it. It was either try and make sense of the madness or lose himself to it, and panicked as he was, he knew he didn't want to lose himself in something like this. He tried to get a clear picture from the rapid fragments, make sense of the people, locations, and objects he was seeing.

It was like trying to move a mountain. There was no way. There was no rhyme or reason to it, and while he usually didn't need those things, he at least needed a stable starting point, and lacking that, it was hopeless. He gave up trying to fit the pictures together and focused on them individually, trying to spark any sort of memory. He didn't want to remember, but he didn't want to go permanently mad either.

This attempt was equally impossible, given that the moment he started to focus on one picture, another showed up.

He was seeing mostly people, and though he couldn't be sure, it seemed that some of them had popped up repeatedly. He was morbidly curious, despite himself. Whatever his past had been, he was sure he'd had a good reason to block it out. But these people…who were they? Friends? Had he had friends? Business associates? Victims?

Family?

The last one struck him so badly he barely noticed the door open, or the light from the hall flooding in. He had an indistinct feeling that being stuck in a dark place with someone standing in the door was not new to him, but he was too lost in the idea to ponder it further. Was that what he was seeing? He'd never thought about having a family. If anything, if he had one, he wanted to go give them his unique brand of gratitude for doing this to his memory, assuming it had been them. It was bizarre, the idea of someone as extraordinary as the Joker having something like a dad. Or—

"Joker."

Another flash of static. "Mommy?"

* * *

AN: Still not delving into the Joker's past. He's struggling to find a way to cope with what he's seeing, but it's not going to lead into flashbacks or explanations of how he is, in case you're nervous about that. The last flash wasn't necessarily his mother, just his attempt to rationalize it as such. I do have a vague idea of what I consider the Joker's past to be, but it's not going to come into play because I don't think he should be explained, or could be, adequately.

Joker's experience is mostly based on my own panic attacks, though the circling of the room came from the amazing short story _The Yellow Wallpaper_, which you can find online. Be advised, it's creepy, especially given that it's based on the author's experiences. I'm nervous as all get out about this chapter, as I don't think it's possible to portray Joker with a weakness without going somewhat out of character. I just hope I didn't go too out there. If you absolutely couldn't stand it, this is the last such chapter of panicked Joker (at least from his viewpoint) that we're going to get, so yeah.


	33. Breaking Point

AN: Sorry about the delay on this chapter, I was riding home yesterday. I meant to have the chapter done by this morning, but I ended up helping my mother at her story time thing. She's a librarian. Speaking of libraries, has anyone else read the picture book version of _The Dark Knight_? I want to find and marry whoever decided it was a good idea to adapt that story for kids, as _Batman Versus the Joker._ It's so hilarious, I almost cracked a rib laughing.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Bruce hadn't known what to expect when he made his way to the Joker's cell, but he certainly hadn't been expecting _that._

"What?"

The Joker didn't respond. He didn't even look up, but remained huddled on the mattress, legs drawn close and arms wrapped around them. Bruce moved the flashlight from where it had been—the lighting panel on the ceiling—on the Joker's body. The chains were gone. That, he had been expecting.

He'd expected to be attacked, honestly. When Alfred woke him at about twenty past six to inform him that while the cameras were still functioning, there was no picture from the Joker's cell, his first thought had been that the clown had either blocked the light source or broken the bulb, somehow, to ready some sort of ambush under the cover of darkness. He'd leapt out of the bed, cursing his stupidity of sleeping instead of keeping watch, and Alfred had gone to check the cameras again while he got dressed. The butler intercepted him on his way to the elevator to inform him that he'd rewound the security footage and the bulb seemed to have died on its own a bit after midnight.

The knowledge that the darkness hadn't been a plan of the Joker's was somewhat reassuring, but the Joker had always been one to take advantage of any new circumstance. Bruce wouldn't have been at all surprised if he'd opened the door to find the man gone, having tried every combination of numbers on the security console in the time since midnight and escaping upon finding the code that would work. Crane was still chained in his cell, according to Alfred, but it wasn't exactly out of character for the Joker to abandon a 'friend.' Barring an escape, he'd definitely expected an attack, be it a physical assault or a trap somehow set with the mattress, sheets, and chains.

Which made the sight of the Joker sitting there, uncharacteristically quiet and even more uncharacteristically afraid, all the more unnerving.

He didn't let his unease show. Knowing the Joker, this was a trick to make Bruce lower his guard, leave himself open to be attacked. The Joker must have some sort of lock pick, and even if he didn't use that as a weapon, he was dangerous enough on his own, fever or not. "Joker." He said it with more force this time, as if that would somehow caution the clown to not do whatever he was planning.

The man shuffled slightly back on the mattress, arms raised as if shielding his body. He had yet to make eye contact, or even fully raise his head. "Don't… "

Bruce lifted the flashlight, shining the beam directly on the Joker's face. He felt his stomach drop.

The Joker had been crying. No, crying wasn't the word for it, judging by just how red his cheeks and eyes were, and how much of his face glistened, still wet from tears. Weeping seemed to be a more accurate description. Possibly even sobbing. Just when Bruce had thought the sight of the Joker as a blond, freckled twenty-something was the most disconcerting image he'd ever see. He had to be faking. But he'd never seen anyone fake tears so convincingly. Not even Crane, who'd once managed to make him lower his guard with crying and panic before biting him on the face, had looked that distraught.

For whatever reason, the light in his face got the Joker to finally respond. He looked up, blinking, and almost instantaneously, he changed. Gone was the terror and sorrow in his expression, replaced by his usual smirk, with only the redness and faint glitter of water to indicate that he'd ever been upset. Likewise, his body relaxed, and he straightened his legs on the mattress, leaning forward slightly. He started directly into the light for a minute, before turning his glance to Bruce.

"Well, hel_lo, _Bats. I'd say I'm delighted by this impromptu visit—and I _am, _for the most part—but I've gotta tell ya, your, uh, apparel leaves something to be desired. Khaki doesn't send the same image as Kevlar."

That should have been the end of it. He should have decided, then and there, that the tears had been an act after all. A façade the Joker had given up when he realized that Bruce wasn't going to fall for it and walk over to him. Except that the Joker never gave up that easily. Except for the fact that those tears could not have been fake. "What's wrong with you?"

He rolled his eyes. "First of all, I think you start about fifty percent of our conversations that way. It's getting dull, Batsy. And rude, that's my second point. I'd ask if you were raised by animals, but given what happened the last time I, uh, brought up your dear old mom and dad, I think it's better for my health if I don't."

"Why were you crying?"

"Crying?" The Joker stared at him as if he was the criminal lunatic. "I don't cry, Bats."

Of all the seemingly-serious excuses the Joker had ever attempted, that was undoubtedly the worst. "Obviously, you do."

The Joker stared at him with confusion that seemed as genuine as the tears. "Huh?"

He felt his patience snap. 'Normal' Joker was trying enough; if he had to deal with a Joker even more separated from reality than usual, he might just kill something. "If you haven't been crying, then what's all over your face?"

"Bandages?" The Joker still had his head tilted, looking completely perplexed, but he brought a hand up to his face. His fingers twitched when they made contact, felt the moisture there.

"Well?"

He didn't respond for a moment, chewing on the scars from the inside as his eyes darted back and forth, finally focusing on the flashlight. "You're shining a light in my face, Bats. People's eyes tend to, uh, water when ya do that. How can you be the 'world's greatest detective' if you don't know basic biology like that?"

"You've been crying for much longer than that. You look like you've been at it since the light burned out."

"I _wasn't_—" He stopped, abruptly, and glanced around the cell as though he'd just noticed the "Oh. The light. Uh, that's why I was crying. That light bulb and I were friends."

Bruce only stared at him.

"Why difference does it make, anyway?" He looked less confused now, more uneasy. "Don'tcha want me to be miserable?"

Bruce opened his mouth to say something about his morals, before remembering that such lectures never had any effect. "How did you get the cuffs off?"

"I did?" He glanced down, blinked, began pushing his tongue around inside his mouth. "Uh, that's for me to know and you to find out?"

_How can he not remember?_ But that was ridiculous, he had to know. This was a just another trick. The fact that Bruce couldn't see what he was trying to achieve didn't mean anything; the Joker's 'logic' rarely went along a pattern that any sane person could follow. True, the Joker's account of his past varied wildly every time he told it, but that was because he was _lying_. Not because he'd blocked out awful memories. "What have you been doing all this time?"

The Joker shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable as ever. "What difference does it make? I'm still here, aren't I?"

So he had thought about leaving. And six and a half hours was definitely long enough to have found the right code. "Why didn't you break out?"

"I—God, Bats, can't ya just be grateful that I didn't?" He brushed his hair back, leaving a streak of blood across his face where his hand had made contact. "I'm fond of these accommodations, all right?"

"What's wrong with your hand?"

The Joker opened his mouth to say something, glanced down. "Um. It's bleeding."

_No, really?_ "Why is it bleeding?"

"…Stigmata."

"Joker."

"What?"

Against his better judgment, he stepped inside, swinging the beam of the flashlight around the cell. There was a faint line of blood going around all of the walls, as if the Joker had dragged his hand along them, as well as a splotch of blood on the door connecting the cells. "What did you do?"

"Why do you _care_?" the Joker snapped, raising his hands. The skin on his palms was scratched to the point of bleeding, and split on the side of the right hand . "You've done _much _worse than scrape me up. So don't act as if you're suddenly concerned for my wellbeing."

"I'm _not._ I don't want to have to deal with another infection, or a clown bleeding out in my basement."

"Right." He rolled his eyes again. "If my presence was really _such _an inconvenience to you, you'd have found the bombs by now. Wanna know what I think?"`

"No."

"I think you want me around to play out some sort of, uh, sick hurt and comfort urge." He pulled the cuff further down on one arm to fully display the bandages beneath. "I think ya _enjoy _beating me up, so ya get to be _nice _afterward. I think _you're _the one in need of therapy."

"I think you're an idiot." Bruce realized how childish that sounded and further realized that he did not care. "You're just determined to think that everyone else is as horrible as you, aren't you? Excuse me for trying to keep you from killing yourself."

"Everyone else _is _as horrible as me. Worse, actually. At least I admit that I'm a monster. Oh, and Batsy?" He drew the last word out, made it more mocking than usual. "I wear the makeup for the benefit of everyone else. No_t_ for myself."

Bruce could only stare, for a moment. He'd been reflecting on _that _all night? "I'm sure."

"_Excuse me_?" Even without the light directly on his face, the Joker's eyes seemed to glow.

"You heard me." Provoking an unrestrained and agitated Joker was on par with a suicide attempt, but he didn't care. He highly doubted the Joker would kill him, not matter how angry he got. He may not care for Bruce Wayne, but the fact remained that without Bruce there would be no Batman, and they both knew it. "The fact that you keep insisting you have no humanity proves that you do. Why would it matter so much otherwise?"

"Because you're being _stupid._" He sounded eerily like a teenage girl on the verge of a temper tantrum. "Does your IQ drop a few dozen points when ya take off the mask, or what?"

"It stays the same and you know it."

"Doubtful."

It was amazing how a man who could destroy so much and terrify so many became a complete child when faced with a conflicting argument. "It stays the same because Batman _is _Bruce Wayne."

"No, he's not," the Joker said at a once, bringing his knees back up to meet his chest. "No, _he's not._"

"And you act as if you're so removed from it all." He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that what he was doing was dangerous. Taunting the Joker was never a good idea—it was akin to challenging him and the Joker was never one to refuse a challenge—but especially not when he was as worked up as this. Provoking an agitated lunatic was asking for something to go wrong, and yet he couldn't stop. It was as if a dam had broken and all his anger over the Joker's scheme, his fear for his and Alfred's safety, and every other negative emotion he'd felt in the past five days was flowing out. He was helpless to stop it.

"That's because I am."

"If you were, what difference would it make who Batman is under the cowl?"

"Because he's supposed to be _like me_." The Joker's voice had picked up speed and he was muttering, almost to himself. "There shouldn't _be _a person under the mask. Batman's a symbol. Of justice. Order. That's why I'm a symbol of chaos. We have to be _more _than people."

He probably _was _talking to himself by this point. Certainly he was offering up information that leant credit to Bruce's argument, something he never would have done as his everyday, horrible self. Had Bruce been less angry, he might have stopped to reflect on that. "Well, Batman _is _a person. And if you became a symbol because of Batman, that means you weren't a symbol before. You were—you _are_ human."

"I'm not." The Joker's arms were back around his legs again, gripping tightly as if they were the only thing holding him together. "I'm not."

"If you're not human, why were you crying?"

"I—I wasn't."

"You can't remember it. You can't remember any of your past, can you?" He'd never been willing to buy that explanation before, but after this episode, it seemed far more likely. "Because you blocked it out. You're afraid of it."

The Joker, face buried against his knees, didn't respond.

"Fear isn't unique to humans. But repression is."

"Shut up," the Joker muttered, his voice sounding far away. Bruce wasn't sure who the clown was talking to. "Please. Shut up."

"Hiding from the person you used to be doesn't make that person cease to exist. You became a symbol _because _of me, but I'm a person too. You are _human._ You are a twisted, psychotic _person _trying to be more than that by basing your existence off of your idea of Batman. An idea that only exists in your head, because Batman is _nothing _like you imagine him to be."

The Joker stopped muttering to himself, and raised his head. He stared straight forward; not at Batman, but at the wall behind him, his eyes and expression completely blank.

* * *

He couldn't take it.

It was one thing to have his past before becoming Joker rendered as static. That had never much bothered him, because he'd never cared to know. It was a time before his struggle for Gotham's soul had begun, so it was irrelevant. Never before had things _since _that time been static. The realization that he'd lost over six hours, according to the Batman, six hours containing something awful enough to make him bloody and sobbing, shook him up, to say the least.

Shook him up badly.

What if he was losing his mind? What if he was finally going as mad as everyone thought him to be? He was better than that. That couldn't be it. But repression was a coping mechanism. Something ordinary people used to deal with their fucked up lives. He'd never really thought of the static as repression before. Not until now. And the idea that his hold on sanity could be slipping through his fingers was too much to handle even before that bastard Bruce Wayne had to run his mouth.

Claiming to be the same as Batman. And claiming that somehow, even if Batman was human, that made the Joker human as well. Normally he'd be able to laugh at the absurdity of the idea and maybe bury one of the paper clips on the mattress beside him into Bruce Wayne's thigh. Bruce Wayne was _not _Batman, he was the vessel through which the Batman worked, much as this body was for the Joker. The idea of them being the same was absurd, under ordinary circumstances.

But the sudden anxiety over his mental state made it hard to see the absurdity. Made Bruce Wayne's words, mad as they were, seem logical. Listening to him had not only been disconcerting, it had torn down his defenses, brought the static back. The Joker found himself caught between the two of them, mockery and scorn on one side and white noise and half-remembered pictures on the other. He knew he'd be lost to one or the other if he didn't take action, so he did the only thing he could do. Found the one area of his mind that remained calm and blank, and ran for it.

Unable to handle any more blows to his psyche, the Joker went away.

* * *

"Joker? Joker!"

There was no response. He sat still as ever, face as immobile as the world's most depraved china doll. Bruce was tempted to write it off as a trick, or an attempt to end the conversation, but he knew that it wasn't. The emptiness in those eyes was as real as the tears on his face had been.

Bruce had pushed him too far. The Joker had never seemed the type that could be broken, only twisting into a new, more depraved shape when others would snap, but it appeared it had finally happened. He'd broken the Joker.

And as if that didn't speak volumes about his inability to maintain Batman's code, there was still the issue of the phone call to be made at noon.

He dropped onto the mattress beside the Joker, ignored the sudden, stabbing pain in his knees. He assumed he'd landed on the Joker's lock picks. "_Joker_."

It was like talking to a wall. He grabbed hold of the man's shoulders and shook. "_Joker_!"

His head lolled back and forth, but his eyes stayed lifeless and his face unresponsive, and Bruce might as well have been alone to wonder how in the hell he was going to fix this.

* * *

AN: A stigmata is the supernatural impression of wounds similar to those inflicted on Jesus Christ during the crucifixion. In case I don't get a chapter out tomorrow, Happy Easter/Zombie Jesus Day to all!


	34. Dissociation

AN: Happy Easter everyone! I am now the proud owner of a rabbit made of whole wheat bread (with raisin eyes), a bag of sour gummy worms, a dark chocolate bar, and a DVD of _The Princess Bride._ I hope everyone else's holiday went well.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

There are two types of insomniacs in the world; those who have trouble falling asleep, and those who have trouble staying asleep. Jonathan Crane, for all his sleepless nights, had never been the latter. Perhaps it was his body's method of holding onto whatever rest it got. Whatever it was, once he was out, he could sleep through atomic warfare—though not, for some reason, Joker snuggling—and usually, the person attempting to wake him would have had better luck raising the dead.

Usually the person attempting it, however, was not the Batman.

He couldn't remember the dream he'd been having before the Batman entered his cell, or any of his dreams except for one he'd had right after falling asleep, of which he could only recall a lot of banging, but for the first few seconds of being shaken and having his name shouted at him, he assumed he'd slipped into a nightmare. Certainly it wouldn't be the first time he'd had a terrifying dream regarding the Bat. He tried to ignore it, wait the nightmare out, but that became impossible when the Batman stopped shaking him and instead began unlocking the cuffs. He opened his eyes, bewildered.

This Batman did not look like the Batman that centered in his nightmares, the demonic, inhuman creature he'd seen on fear toxin. He looked like Bruce Wayne. That wasn't a sure sign that this wasn't a dream—why would Batman take the restraints off?—but he took it as a sign that it was. His dreams rarely if ever featured a normal looking Batman—and the rare few that did weren't nightmares—and he'd never dreamt of Bruce Wayne. Besides, the last time he'd written off a person as a dream or hallucination, he'd been completely wrong.

"What are you doing?" It occurred to him that he ought to be taking advantage of the situation while Batman was distracted with the last cuff, somehow or other. Kick him in the face, maybe, knock him out, take the keys, and escape. The Batman was in close proximity, and distracted by something. Scarecrow had yet to speak up, but he knew that his other half felt the same way. And yet he sat, cautious and transfixed. The Batman seemed frantic. He wanted to escape, he could think of nothing he'd prefer more, but he also wanted to see where this was going.

"I need your help."

"You're finally admitting that you have a problem?" The words slipped out before he could stop them, and he flinched. The Batman didn't even respond, still unlocking the cuff from his ankle. That disturbed Crane more than anything else about this bizarre encounter so far. _What is he doing?_

_Probably dragging you off to some unspeakable torture._

_Not funny._

_Not trying to be. Look at him. He looks completely _gone_, Jonathan. You should have knocked him out when his attention wasn't on you._

_Right. Because agitating the madman is always such a wonderful plan— _The Batman took hold of him, pulling him to his feet. _Oh, hell._

"Can you walk?"

The question was so sudden and unexpected that he could barely word a response. "What?"

"Can you walk or do I need to carry you?" His voice was nearly the growl he used while in costume, but he didn't seem angry. Not at Crane, anyway. There was a sense of anger, mixed with fear, among other things, and Crane would have liked nothing more than proper time to analyze it.

"I—I can walk—"

"Good." He was pulled forward, roughly but not painfully, to the door connecting to the Joker's cell. Walking still hurt, but not as badly as he'd expected. His biggest concern—beyond figuring out what was going on—was keeping Bruce Wayne's far-too-large jeans around his waist as they moved. He watched as the Batman entered the code, not even trying to conceal the numbers he was punching in. He shouldered the door open and dragged Crane in behind him.

"Do something."

Crane's first and obvious observation was that the room was dark. The only light came from Crane's cell, the door between them still open. His next observation, as he glanced back toward the doorway, was that there was a large bloodstain on the door, which made his stomach twist. It wasn't until the Batman nudged him forward, toward the mattress, that he caught sight of the Joker.

He knew right away that something was terribly wrong.

He'd seen that blank look before. Often, even, in Arkham, both as a doctor and a patient. It was a sign of dissociation at best and catatonia at worst. He registered that after staring vacantly for a few seconds. The expression, he recognized at once, but it was so foreign when presented with the Joker, that at first he didn't realize what he was seeing at all.

"Jesus Christ."

"I can't get him to talk, or move. Or respond in any way."

"And this bothers you?" he asked, before he could stop himself, sitting down in front of the Joker. The clown didn't so much as glance at him.

"The phone call—" He went on past that, but Crane blocked him out. Of course. No concern for the villains, as usual, just worry about the 'innocents' in Gotham. Innocents in Gotham. What an oxymoron that was. Never mind that Batman had broken the Joker. And he must have, Crane couldn't see the Joker breaking for any other reason. No one else was worthy of getting the last laugh.

"Joker." There was no response. He wished he had a better light source to test the dilation of the man's pupils against. "Joker." He reached out, brushed his hair back. He noticed a light, dried streak of blood over the clown's face and blamed the Batman. "Why is there no light in here?"

"It burned out."

Crane recalled the Joker's reaction the last time the man had been left in the dark, and winced. "When?"

"Almost seven hours ago."

_Shit._ As much as he hated to care for the Joker, much as he knew he shouldn't, he found that he couldn't help it. His heart went out to the man, trapped in his worst fear for so long. Once upon a time, such a thing would have amused him, but after being force fed fear toxin and having to leave with the damage it had caused every day, it was less entertaining unless he was causing it. Especially if the victim in question was some that he considered—for no good reason, he knew—a friend.

"We need to get him out of here."

"What?"

"We need to get him out of this cell."

Crane had meant into an area with light. He'd been thinking that they'd move the Joker into his cell, and carry on with the attempts to wake the Joker from there. Instead, the Batman, who didn't seem to be thinking too clearly, picked the Joker up and, with Crane following behind, brought him into Wayne Manor itself.

He knew it was horrible, given that the Joker was seemingly catatonic and the Batman appeared to have lost his tentative hold on sanity, but he found himself so overjoyed to be in a room that wasn't freezing, with lights flickering, or water dripping, that he almost couldn't care about the current predicament.

* * *

As he went around the spare bedroom removing anything that he imagined could be used as a weapon—which meant most of everything, Gotham's villains were nothing if not creative—Bruce reflected that bringing Crane and the Joker into the house had been the stupidest idea he'd had since bringing them into the cave in the first place. He'd have liked to say that he'd brought them into the mansion in the hopes that such a complete change of scenery would snap the man out of it, but he'd be lying. He'd panicked, pure and simple. In a way, he was almost lucky that the Joker hadn't recovered. If he had, he'd surely be tearing around the mansion by now.

He was going to have to have a lock put on the door, as soon as possible. He supposed he'd just have to guard it in the meantime. And the windows would have to be barred.

He glanced to Jonathan Crane, sitting cross legged on the bed across from the Joker, as the former psychiatrist leaned forward, placing his hands on the Joker's temples, and bending his fingers to shield the man's eyes from the light. "What are you doing?" He hoped that that bringing the mad doctor in to try and cure the Joker hadn't been a stupid idea. In retrospect, it seemed that way.

"Seeing if his pupils dilate." He pulled his hands away, tilted his head. He took the Joker's hand, and lifted it an inch or so from the bedspread, then let go. The Joker's hand fell back to the mattress. "Ah."

"What?"

"His eyes respond to light, and his hand didn't stay in place when I stopped holding it." Crane's expression was an odd mix of concern and fascination. Bruce wondered if he viewed everyone as an experiment, something to be studied. Considering his absolute lack of remorse about the people he'd tortured, he probably did.

"Is that bad?"

"No. Catatonics are either resistant to movement, or have waxy flexibility." His voice sounded far away, his focus solely on the Joker. Bruce couldn't be sure if that was from worry or intrigue. Before he could ask what waxy flexibility was, Crane continued. "They'll stay where they're posed. So he's not catatonic."

Bruce decided to take this as good news. "Then what is he?"

"Disassociated. The outside world is too much for him to handle at the moment, so his mind is acting as if the outside world doesn't exist." Crane turned to regard Bruce for the first time since entering the room, eyes clearing. "What happened?"

"The light in his room burned out around midnight. I didn't find that out until this morning."

"And you found him like this?"

"No." He swallowed, dreading explaining the confrontation. "I found him injured and crying. I asked what happened…he wouldn't give me a straight answer…we ended up arguing." He felt shame and disgust at recounting it, and wondered, for a moment, why he cared what Crane would think. But it wasn't Crane's revulsion that he was worried about. It was his own. He'd pushed a man who posed no threat to him over the edge, and no attempt at self-justification would change that. "I…told him that we were only human and that his belief about being above that was only his way of hiding from himself."

"Lovely." His tone was the driest Bruce had ever heard. "I suppose you wanted to break his spirit so badly that this couldn't wait until he wasn't ill and hysterical?"

"I didn't—" He cut himself off. It had been wrong, and nothing could excuse or make up for it. And unless Crane could fix the Joker, Bruce would be paying for it, as would all of the innocent people who'd lose their lives as a result of his inability to control himself. "Can you…re-associate him?"

"Your concern is truly striking, Batman." He turned back to the Joker, then glanced over his shoulder again at Bruce. "Move."

"What?"

"As you're the one who upset him in the first place, I doubt I can make any progress with you in his line of sight. It's because of you that he's hiding, after all. So shoo."

He moved, only realizing after he did so that he'd just allowed himself to be scolded by a super villain.

Crane leaned forward, took the Joker's hands in his own. "Joker?" His voice was so soft that Bruce barely picked up on the word, and far gentler than he'd ever heard it.

The Joker gave no indication that he'd heard.

"Joker? It's Jonathan." He paused for a moment, waiting for a reaction, and continued when none came. "It's Jonny. Scaredy cat. Kitten. Princess. Angel. Jonathan. Whatever you want to call me."

'Princess' was one Bruce hadn't heard. He got the feeling that he did not ever want to know where it came from.

"The point is, I'm here. And I miss you." He let go of the Joker's left hand, and raised his own to stroke the clown's face. The scar from the nail gun was still there, forming a perfect circle in the center of his hand. "You don't have to talk to me, not if you don't want to. You don't have to get up, or do anything. I don't want you to do anything if it makes you feel unsafe, all right? But I am worried about you, and I wish you were here with me, so I'd know that you're okay."

He brought his hand down and took the Joker's again. The clown may as well have been an incredibly life-like, mutilated mannequin, for all his response.

"Joker? If you feel like you want to, I'd feel better if you showed me you can hear me. You can show me however you want," he added quickly. "You don't have talk, or move, if you don't want. You could just look at me. And you don't have to do that if you don't want to. I know that you don't want to be out here. But I want to be sure that you're all right. And I won't let anybody hurt you if you want to come back."

He brought the right hand up this time, stroking the Joker's hair. "You don't have to stay, if you want to come back. You can go away again as soon as you like. Even if you're only here for a second. I don't want you to stay if you don't want to. I'm not going to be upset if you leave again. I promise. And I'm not going to be upset if you don't want to come back at all. But I do want to know that you're okay."

A comatose person would have had more reaction. But Crane kept at it, one hand stroking greenish-blond tangled curls while the other held the Joker's, and all the while talking in that soft, calm tone.

Bruce wasn't sure how long he stood there. He'd removed the clock, as it could easily been unplugged and used as a bludgeoning instrument. It felt to be at least half an hour, and though he couldn't be certain, his estimates of time tended to be accurate, give or take five minutes.

The only thing he knew for certain was that, after what felt like half an hour, Crane twitched, and Bruce snapped back to attention. The doctor glanced down to his left hand, still holding the Joker's, then back to the clown's face, blank as always. Before Bruce could ask what had happened, Crane had moved forward, hugging the Joker.

"Thank you. Thank you so much. I'm so glad that you're okay. And thank you for telling me. You don't have to come back again, but I'm so happy that you did. If you want to again, I'll make sure that nothing bad happens, all right? But you can stay where you are if you want. You don't have to come here unless you want to. I'm just happy to know that you can hear me. Thank you." He pulled back slightly, kissed the Joker's cheek, and hugged him again. Crane glanced to the side and noticed Bruce, moved his hands up to cover the Joker's ears.

"What happened?"

"He squeezed my hand. Only for a second, but he definitely did it on purpose."

Tightening his grip for a moment was light years away from remembering and dialing the correct phone number, but Bruce would take what he could get.

"Go get the phone."

"Now?" It couldn't be past seven thirty.

"It'll take a huge amount of coaxing, I think. And I doubt I'll be able to get him to talk. I'll have to try mimicking his voice once he dials."

Bruce cringed. The Joker's voice could go quite low, as Crane's was, but the man had a way of speaking that was none like any other. Still, it was the only choice they had. "I'll get the phone." He'd have to bring the charger as well, if they were going to have it in the room. Oh well. Crane didn't have henchmen, only chemical suppliers, and Bruce doubted they'd aid in an escape attempt. "Do you need food?"

"Please."

He stared at the Joker, who hadn't reacted in the slightest to having his ears covered. "What do you think he'll eat?"

Crane pulled back a bit, considered. "I think I can get him to have a sandwich. It needs to be cut, though. He can't bite well."

"Into how many pieces?"

"Fourths."

He nodded, turned to go. Crane blocked the Joker's view with his own body, and Bruce wondered how the hell he was going to explain this latest development to Alfred.

"Batman?"

He stopped in the doorway, turned to Crane, who was still facing the Joker, back to him. "Yes?"

"You have to cut his sandwich into triangles. He won't eat it if the slices are rectangles."

Bruce stared. What he could see of Crane's face had gone scarlet.

"…I know from experience."

Bruce said nothing, only walked out of the room.

* * *

AN: Waxy flexibility and resistance to movements are true, for catatonics. I'm not sure about dilation, though, I got that from an episode of _Buffy_. I've also no idea how to bring someone out of a dissociative state; Jonathan's attempts are based on my observation that in the movie _Sybil_, people were sometimes able to bring Sybil back when she'd dissociated into another personality by saying her name or talking to her, and not the current personality.


	35. Sorry

AN: So Lyndalion16 made a lovely picture for my one shot fic, _Leporiphobia._ You can find it here on here: http:// muezac. deviantart. com/ art/ Leporiphobia-119389609 Check it out!

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Bruce waited until a minute past noon before knocking, though he'd been standing in front of the door since at least twenty minutes before twelve. Well, standing wasn't quite an accurate description. Pacing back and forth in a moderate panic and resisting the urge to kick the door open would have been more accurate. Only the knowledge that if the Joker was, by some miracle, managing to dial despite his condition, breaking into the room would certainly scare him back into a fully unresponsive state.

Still, he was going mad not knowing.

The entirety of his time, after bringing Crane the cell phone and before heading back down here, had been spent searching for any clue to the location of the Joker's men. Aside, that was, from explaining the situation to Alfred on his way to the kitchen. He wasn't sure how his butler had taken the information, as beyond informing Bruce that he was going to attach a lock to the door and making some comment about refusing to clean up after them, he'd had nothing to say. Bruce was fairly sure Alfred thought this was the stupidest thing he'd ever done, and Bruce couldn't disagree on that point. He hadn't left, though, and that was something.

His quest to find information on the Joker's men or the bombs' location was fruitless as ever, and he wasn't sure if his stress over the clown's condition was a help or a hindrance. The security footage he had from the payphones under surveillance and the evidence he'd gathered from the areas were of no use, as always. There hadn't been any news reports of suspicious substances or anything like rigged oil drums recently discovered in any buildings, either. Whatever place the Joker had chosen to target, he'd used uncharacteristic restraint in concealing the explosives. Bruce might have been impressed, had the threat of detonation not been imminent, had this not been his fault for pushing the clown over the edge, and had this not been his city.

He recalled the Joker's first morning in captivity, when he'd hinted that the bombs might not be in a building that held people, just important information or priceless art, and the like. Trusting anything the Joker said was asking to have the rug pulled out from under him, but he found himself hoping that the clown hadn't been lying. He'd set flame to the Mona Lisa itself if it meant no one else would die as a result of the Joker's actions.

As a result of _his _actions, because he had driven the Joker to this state. If Crane's attempt to get the number failed—and given the Joker's condition, Bruce didn't see how it couldn't—every life lost would be as much his fault as the Joker's. The blood would be on both their hands.

Four hours and ten minutes of dead end searches later, he gave up and found himself in front of the door to the spare bedroom he'd left the villains in, willing himself not to knock.

He glanced down at his watch for what was certainly over the hundredth time since he'd arrived at the door, watched the second hand click to the twelve, marking the time as noon exactly. From a room down the hall, he could hear the television, turned to GCN. Most rooms throughout the mansion were equipped with a television or radio, and they stayed on near continuously. He had a police scanner, of course, but the news often picked up on suspicious-but-not-yet-criminal events first.

Bruce couldn't make out the specifics of the broadcast, but the newscaster's voices sounded calm, not the tone one would expect to hear if a nearby building had just been engulfed in flame. Then again, there was no reason for the explosives to have gone off yet, even if the Joker hadn't called. The call was made at noon. He had no idea when the detonation would be made. It could be right at twelve, or much later. For all he knew, the building already had gone up in smoke and the news station simply hadn't been informed yet.

He glanced at his watch again. The minute hand ticked past the twelve, and he knocked.

For a moment, there was silence. Then Crane's voice. "Come in."

He undid the bolt lock Alfred had screwed to the door and frame, making a note install a more permanent outward-facing lock later, and opened the door cautiously. The Joker may have been dissociated and Jonathan Crane may have been slightly injured and overmedicated when he last was in the room, but there were no cameras here, another thing he needed to take care of. For all he knew, the Joker had recovered and they'd managed to turn the room into a death trap in Bruce's absence. He thought he'd removed everything dangerous, but God only knew what their depraved minds could conceive of. Now that he thought of it, he hadn't removed the mirror in the connecting bathroom. _Oh, hell._

As it turned out, however, he stepped inside to find the room exactly as he'd left it, only now the Joker was facing away from the door and Crane, with his hands over the Joker's ears again, was facing towards it. "May I help you?" His voice was steadier than Bruce had heard it since bringing them to the cave, though there was an undercurrent of fear in it that was also visible in his eyes.

"Did he dial?"

"Yes and they answered and I spoke for him and they fell for it," he said so quickly that the words were almost incomprehensible. There was more than an undercurrent of fear to his eyes now, and he'd leaned closer to the Joker. "And if they saw through it and didn't say anything and set the bombs off anyway it won't be my fault."

He wondered how much of the man's panic was caused by the medication, and how much was from other factors, such as the stress of trying to get through to the Joker, his fear of the Batman, and his underlying condition. He imagined this prescription wouldn't be permanent, if this madness ever ended and he got them back to Arkham. Then again, maybe the meds would have leveled out in a less stressful situation. They still might. Well, that was all he needed; a lucid Scarecrow on top of everything else.

He might have offered reassurance—it wasn't his fault if this mess fell to pieces, after all—but the last time he'd let any bit of humanity show to a criminal, it had resulted in a battle of wills that reduced the Joker to a feverish, dissociative state. And he was still preoccupied with the phone call. There was no indication that Jonathan Crane was lying—Bruce wasn't sure he could, in this state—but he had no reason to trust him. "Let me see the phone."

"It's there." He didn't lower his hand from his friend's head to point, but he flicked his eyes to one of the pillows, where the phone sat. Bruce crossed the room, picked it up. He took care to avoid stepping into the Joker's peripheral vision, but that turned out to be unnecessary effort. The clown was sitting as such an angle that the pillows wouldn't fall into his line of sight anyway. Bruce was impressed by Crane's attention to detail, despite himself.

He flipped the phone open. A call had been made, exactly at noon. He committed the number to memory, made sure to look it up as soon as possible. He didn't know who else Crane or the Joker would have called, assuming this didn't lead to a pay phone, but he wasn't about to take any more chances. He'd have to have this room bugged, and soon. He put the phone back on the mattress, regarded Crane. "How long did it take to get him to dial?"

"You came back at seven thirty." He seemed calmer now that it was apparent Bruce wasn't going to attack him, and his eyes tracked back and forth in thought. "It took…forty-five minutes, I'd say, to make him eat. I spent the entire time after that persuading him to call." He blinked, slowly, as though the hours of effort had just caught up with him. "It shouldn't take that long to do it again, though. Not now that I've gotten through the first time."

"How did you do it?" It was bizarre to imagine Crane as a help to anyone, despite the fact that the man must have been more than competent in psychiatry to become Arkham's administrator. Come to think of it, he hadn't experimented on all of his patients, either, and most of those who weren't guinea pigs had been successfully released. He must be skilled, to have been an administrator at such a young age, but knowing about his experiments and his absolute insanity, Bruce couldn't see him capably caring for anything. Well, maybe a goldfish. The Joker was his friend and former lover, however, so that likely had something to do with it.

"The same way I got him to squeeze my hand. By being calm and patient. Be persistent and kind enough, and you can make anyone do just about anything."

'Kind' wasn't a term he'd use to describe any of the methods he'd ever seen the doctor implement. "He came out of catatonia because you were nice?" The last word came out more scornfully than he'd intended.

How Crane managed to roll his eyes so nonchalantly when he was still visibly afraid was beyond Bruce. "As I believe I've already explained, he isn't catatonic. And he didn't come out of it completely; he just came back enough to dial before retreating again." He somehow managed to look down his nose at Bruce despite sitting while the other was standing, contempt clearly showing through apprehension. "And yes, that's exactly what I did. If you're trying to tear down my self-worth as well, then you'll have to do better than that, Batman. Even if by some miracle you managed to succeed, you'd be utterly lost without me to coax the Joker into doing what you want. I'm sure you wouldn't want the deaths of so many…good people on your conscience."

"I'm not trying to break you." He found himself too exhausted by the day's events to get angry at the accusation. "I wasn't trying to break him."

"Trying," Crane said, "doesn't matter." He leaned in again, though he was already partially in the Joker's lap, as if he was trying to protect his friend from Bruce's very presence. "Whether or not you intended for this to happen doesn't make the slightest difference. It still did, and if he never recovers, it will be your fault. You obviously weren't _trying_ to not destroy him hard enough."

"If he never recovers," Bruce retorted, feeling a spark of both anger and guilt, "the world will be that much better off."

Crane's eyes were the coldest he'd ever seen them, and he was all but hugging the Joker's listless form. "You're not sorry at all, are you?"

And he wasn't. Not really.

He felt guilt, yes, and disgust. He was sickened by his own actions, by how he'd let his anger get the best of him and blind him to the fact that he should have stopped pushing far before the Joker ever got to that state. There had been nothing heroic about his actions in that moment, and he hadn't even been attempting anything heroic when he pushed the Joker over the edge. He'd let his frustration regarding the situation override his common sense, and taken it out on the clown. Not that the Joker didn't deserve it, but still. How many times now had he been told that Batman couldn't be personal?

Meaning this little fiasco had been another way of disappointing Alfred, and himself. Once again he'd failed to live up to the standards that he himself had set, and the guilt regarding that failure was every bit as powerful as his disgust. He was risking the city he fought so hard to defend because he couldn't control his emotions over a situation that he'd agreed to. Agreed only to prevent deaths, true, but that was beside the point. If the phone trick had failed, or it wouldn't work a second time, and people died as a result, he'd be feeling the guilt for that as well.

But as for feeling _sorry,_ he didn't. Not in the slightest. In fact, if their current situation didn't put lives at stake, he doubted he'd be feeling the guilt or disgust anywhere near this strongly. As far as he was concerned, it was better if the Joker remained like this. Gotham would be safer and no one, besides his equally mad friends, would be upset about it. The Joker was incurable, despite what the city's legal system seemed to think. He couldn't be helped, only restrained, kept from hurting anyone ever again. It would be better for the city—the world, really—if the Joker were to fall asleep and never wake up.

And Bruce couldn't bring himself to feel sorry for the man who had taken away everything he'd most wanted. The woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, the man he'd been hoping would transform Gotham into a place that would no longer need the Batman, and now the security of his identity and home. The Joker had taken everything from him, and if was going to be fully honest with himself, it felt _wonderful _to take something from him, as horribly against his morals as that was.

"No. I'm not."

"Of course you're not. Why should you care what harm you do to a villain? What measure do we have to you, anyway?" Crane shook his head, brows slanting downward. "Harley was right."

"Quinzel?"

"When she was my psychiatrist. We were talking about you, back when everyone thought you were behind those murders Harvey Dent committed. She said that if you were caught, you'd never be held accountable for the damage you did to the villains. The people you supposedly killed, yes, but not us." He glanced at the Joker, pity washing over his face.

"That's not—"

"Do you enjoy hurting people this way?" The long white fingers of one hand stroked the Joker's tangled blond hair, while still staying in place over his ear. "Vicariously getting your revenge for your parents through us, are you?"

Now that brought back his anger, even through the exhaustion. "Enough." He didn't growl it. He didn't have to. "You're the last person I need a lecture in ethics from."

"You're just like any of us," Crane said. His voice was quieter now, and he was hugging the Joker. As much as he could, anyway, with his hands still over the Joker's ears.

"At least I'm not so far gone that I think torturing the mentally ill is somehow helping humanity."

"It _was._ At least I'm not so far gone to think that _this_," he tilted his head toward the Joker, "is something you shouldn't feel remorse for."

Bruce sighed. This was getting them nowhere. The last thing he wanted was to fully alienate his only connection to what remained of the Joker's sanity. "Do you need anything?"

"Food again. Unless you're planning on starving us."

He let that slide. "And you think you can get him to call again?"

"Provided I don't have any interruptions, yes."

Bruce nodded, and glanced to the wall. "At some point, I'm going to have that window barred."

Crane shrugged. "Do it after midnight, then. The more often I get him to do this, the less time it should take. It'll be far easier for him to handle the disruption after we've done this two or three times."

He hesitated. He could see the logic in Crane's words, but the idea of leaving the doctor alone with an unblocked window didn't sit right at all.

Crane took note of his expression. "If it bothers you that much, Batman, I can assure you that glass has a very dull cutting edge, and it would be highly unlikely for me to be able to do you a serious injury with a piece of your window pane before you subdued me."

He thought of the scars that crisscrossed over Crane's body underneath Bruce's oversized clothes. It was likely that he knew about the glass from experience. "I was thinking more along the lines of an escape attempt."

"As if I'd leave him alone with you."

For the life of him, Bruce could not understand why Crane would so fervently protect and remain with a man who had only ever used him when it was convenient and deserted him when it was not. He doubted he would ever get it, and he was sure he didn't want to. "I'm not going to hurt him."

"Right."

"I don't want to hurt either of you." And he didn't, much as he wanted the Joker out of commission.

"But you want to keep me from leaving. Holding me hostage is hardly a benign action on your part."

"The Joker insisted you come here. You're the only one who can get him to make the phone calls now. Otherwise—" And there he faltered. Otherwise what? It wasn't as if he could just take Crane back to Arkham, not now that he knew Batman's identity.

"You haven't accepted what you have to do to us to protect your little secret yet, have you, Batman?" His voice was equal parts scornful and serious. "Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead, the saying goes."

"I'm not going to do that."

Crane only shook his head.

"I'm not," he insisted. "I _can't_." He wasn't sure who he was trying to reassure anymore.

"It's not nearly as hard as it looks. Not after a while."

"And why are you so insistent that it will happen?" he demanded, running with the first change of subject that came into his mind. "Do you want to die?"

"Hardly. But I've been disillusioned too many times to trick myself into believing things will be all right." He cast the smallest of glances toward the Joker before looking away again.

"They will." He ignored the doctor's scoff. "Look, I don't know what I'm going to do with you, but I'm not going to do that. Don't be afraid."

"There's a difference between fear and honesty, Batman."

And, knowing it would be fruitless to keep on arguing, he left the room to go make lunch.

* * *

AN: "Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead" is a saying from Benjamin Franklin.


	36. When We Talk About Love

AN: This chapter heavily references one of my prior fics, _Act Like We Are Fools._ In case you haven't read it, it involves Joker and Crane having a relationship that ends violently when the Joker forces Jonathan to fight Batman alone, and then attacks him with a crowbar when Jonathan shows back up, outraged about it.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

"Unrepentant bastard," Jonathan muttered, the instant the Batman had left the room. He took his hands away from the Joker's face, bringing them back down to meet the clown's own hands. The Joker had no reaction to the contact, and Jonathan wasn't sure if he even felt it. He remained staring straight forward, looking in Jonathan's direction, but not seeing him at all.

_You know, _said Scarecrow, speaking up for the first time since Jonathan had begun to persuade the Joker into dialing the number, _I'm the last person who'd agree with the Bat under normal circumstances, but he has a point. And I'm not just saying that to be the devil's advocate._

Jonathan found himself holding the Joker tighter in response. _Well, thanks for that. It's wonderful to know that you're on my side through such trying circumstances._

_Excuse me for not caring if the guy who played Whack-a-Mole with your ribs wakes up or not._

Scarecrow had never forgiven the Joker for that. Jonathan found it darkly amusing in a way, considering that his alter ego had deserted him before his fight with the Joker last Halloween had even begun, yet he still held the bigger grudge. He didn't respond. Scarecrow would never be able to let that go, and there was no use in arguing about it. Especially not at a time like this.

Jonathan hadn't forgotten that night either, not by a long shot. Even now, with the Joker sitting broken and unresponsive before him, the memory of the man taking a crowbar to his body, over and over, stirred inklings of anger beneath his concern. The pain that night had been beyond agonizing, beyond description, but it had been nothing compared to the hurt he'd already been feeling from the Joker's betrayal. There weren't words in the English language, or any other language that Jonathan knew, to cover how terrible that had felt.

The emotional pain was still there as well, though he'd learned to bury it. There was no point in holding onto memories that could only hurt him, and while he could never truly forgive or forget, he could at least act as if he had. Certainly at a time like this it was important to keep from alienating his only companion, even if that companion had already shut himself off from the world.

"I want you to get better," he told the Joker, as if to reassure the man regarding the Bat's statements that he couldn't have heard. He brought one hand up to stroke his friend's face, taking care to avoid the scars. He didn't know where the Joker was. It could be a safe place sealed off from the rest of the world, or it could be a nightmare, from his past or imagined. If it was the latter, a reminder of the scars might bring up a terror from the Joker's past, which would hardly help him to recover. "I miss you, Joker. If you want to come back, I'll keep you safe."

There was no change, and though Jonathan had stopped hoping for one by this point, he still felt disappointment. Not at the Joker, but at the situation. And himself. He was a genius. He'd become the administrator of an institution when he was still in his twenties, for heaven's sake. And he was without a doubt the most competent psychiatrist Arkham had ever seen, if one ignored his experiments. Not that the experiments had been wrong, but trying to explain their purpose to anyone else was an exercise in futility. Even if the majority of the world considered that area of his practice to be 'evil,' he'd still been the hospital's best doctor, conventionally.

And despite all of that, the Joker remained blank and unresponsive as he'd been when Jonathan first saw him. It was frustrating as hell, not to mention frightening. The Joker was supposed to be the strong one. The brave one. The one who could take whatever the Batman could dish out and smile throughout it all. Unpredictable and contradictory as he was, the Joker had been every bit as unshakable as the Bat in that aspect.

Until now.

After the initial shock of seeing his friend in this state had worn off, around the time the Joker had squeezed his hand, Jonathan had assumed it was an act. Once that Batman had left the room, he'd expected the Joker to return to normal at once, tell Jonathan what he was planning. Which only made the situation all the more horrific when that didn't happen. As far as he could see, the Joker was truly broken, and the realization turned his stomach.

_He could still be faking, you know. He said he had a plan._

That thought had occurred to Jonathan more than once, as Scarecrow surely knew. Joker hadn't trusted him with the plan for fear that he'd reveal it, and he had no solid argument against the theory. Only speculation. _Last time he at least told me that he had a plan, when he saw how frightened I was. If he was aware of the world around him, he'd know that I'm nervous._

Scarecrow gave what Jonathan sensed as the mental equivalent of a shrug. _You hide it well._

He shook his head, taking the Joker's hand again. _Not from him. He's disturbingly good at reading people. Especially us. _He thought back to the guessing game he'd once played with the Joker in hopes of stopping the clown's plan to murder him and held in a shudder.

_Especially _you_, maybe. I don't wear my heart quite as far out on my sleeve._

Jonathan rolled his eyes, resisting the desire to ask his other half about the time the Joker had manipulated Scarecrow into showing how much he loved and cared for the clown, during a bank robbery. _Whatever. He would have given me some sign, if this was an act._

_Maybe he already did. He squeezed your hand, didn't he?_

_So I'd know that he could hear me. _He shook his head again, then leaned forward, resting it on the Joker's shoulder. His expressions, as his friends had told him, tended to shift around during his conversations with Scarecrow, and if the Joker was seeing him, he didn't want to confuse him by switching from concern to annoyance and so on, every five seconds. _If he intended that to be a sign that he's faking, he'd have known from my reaction that I didn't perceive it that way. He'd have done something else afterward to make sure that I got it._

_Unless he decided it was funnier to keep you in the dark._

Jonathan nearly shook his head a third time, but stopped out of worry that the unexpected movement would startle the Joker. _He didn't do that._

_You know, for someone with such a pessimistic view of life, you sure are an idealist. _Scarecrow's voice sounded caught between pitying and amused. _He enjoys fucking with you, Jonathan. Surely you've realized that by now?_

_It's not that. _He didn't have to look back up to recall that Joker's expression in perfect clarity. That blank, doll-like stare and the complete absence of any emotion. He hadn't so much as licked his scars or even his lips once all day. If the lack of life in his eyes hadn't been a dead giveaway that something was very wrong, the fact that he wasn't poking his tongue out of his mouth every other second definitely was. _He's not faking._

_The man tricked you into thinking he loved you. He tricked Harley into thinking that he was a wonderful boyfriend. Face it, he's a master manipulator._

_He's not that good. No one's _that _good._

_He spends every day in Arkham surrounding by mental patients. You know, perfect examples for him to base an imitation off of?_

_Don't end sentences with prepositions._ He couldn't care less about his other half's grammar, but he was sick of the argument.

_Oh, go to hell. _He sounded fully amused now. _You do it all the time._

_That's different._

_I'm sure. But seriously. He's faking._

_No, he isn't. I'm a psychiatrist, I think I'd know._

_Because your doctorate is of so much use in bringing him back to reality, eh?_

His face reddened at that, and he held back an angry response. Getting into a fight with Scarecrow would serve no good purpose at this point, and only make him lose the last functioning ally he had at this point. It didn't help that his alter ego was right. Despite knowing the Joker intimately—literally—and living with the man for some time, sharing thoughts and comforting him when he was missing the Bat, he was making almost no progress.

Maybe it was _because_ of their connection that he wasn't getting through? There was a reason psychiatrists weren't supposed to treat people they knew well, after all. Leland was only his psychiatrist back at Arkham because he'd scared off absolutely every other doctor qualified enough to handle his case. He often brought up the conflict of interests whenever he didn't feel like talking to her, which was nearly every session. Perhaps he was too close to the situation to be of help, too much a reminder of the world the Joker was trying to escape.

He wondered if Harley would be able to get through, if she was here. He'd always thought she was a brilliant psychiatrist, her little problems like getting far too attached to her patients and falling for the Joker's lies aside. Certainly she'd spent more time with the Joker than he had, and gotten closer physically. Emotionally as well, he guessed. She could probably read him like a book. A book that suddenly printed pages upside down and switched to different languages in the middle of a sentence, but still. Harley had a better insight to the Joker's mind than anyone else could ever hope to have.

Jonathan found himself wishing he could see her again.

_If wishes were horses, _Scarecrow informed him, _we'd have Nightmare back. And enough others to start our own cavalry. If you want to see her, let's go._

_We can't._ He tightened his hold on the Joker's hands, though not tightly enough to cause his friend harm. It struck him just how bizarre it felt, to not have the Joker holding back. He'd nearly always been the one to initiate contact, seemingly unable to keep his hands off of Jonathan, even when Crane protested against being held. Or hugged, kissed, tickled, whatever the case may be. The Joker was the type to hold someone until he decided that person could get up, and never before then. Gunfire wouldn't make him stop snuggling if he still wanted contact.

Just another happy little reminder of how nightmarish this situation had become.

_Yes, you can. Smash the window and run like hell. The Batman was dumb enough to leave us in here; take advantage of it before he makes good on his word and bars your escape route._

_I _can't._ The Joker can barely walk without being dragged; there's no way we'd get out before we're intercepted. And he doesn't have shoes. _He glanced down at the Joker's bare feet, wondering if his high heels had been left in the cell. Not that they'd have been of any use to begin with. _I'm not going to impale his feet on a broken window pane._

_Then don't take him with us._

Jonathan shifted closer to the Joker without thinking about it, as if instinctively trying to protect the man, even from his other half. The fact that he was already halfway in the Joker's lap didn't keep him from moving further forward, trying not to hurt or discomfort the clown with his movements. _I am _not _leaving him here._

_He's the one who wanted to come here. He's the one who dragged us here. _Scarecrow said it flatly, without a note of accusation. He was only stating the facts, which made it all the worse. _He wanted to be with the Batman, and if we go the Batman will either have to drag him back to Arkham—where there's a chance he'll recover and let slip Bruce Wayne's big secret—or take care of him. I think he'd love having the Bat as his personal nurse. We're doing him a favor, really._

_He would never tell Batman's secret. If he went back to Arkham, those miserable excuses for professionals would hunt down whatever's left of his mind and shatter it. And even if the Batman kept him here, he would not be well taken care of. If I leave, the bombs will go off, and the Bat will take it out on the Joker. It will _destroy _him._

_You coaxed the number out of him. Let Batman do the same, if he's so worried about his precious city._

Jonathan almost scoffed, despite his anxiety and irritation. _I only got it out of him because I've been trained to deal with people literally frightened out of their minds. _And even then, it had taken _hours_. The Joker had hit the last button of the number exactly at noon. Jonathan had nearly fainted, so surprised he very nearly forgot to imitate the man's voice over the line. It was still a miracle his bluff hadn't been called. The Joker's voice, just like everything else about him, was one of a kind. _The Batman would not be calm, or at all gentle, and just make him worse. And then probably beat him when he wouldn't get him to dial._

_Good._ There was no hint of humor in Scarecrow's voice now.

Jonathan straightened up at that, immediately stroking the Joker's hair to reassure him after the sudden movement. _Excuse me?_

_You heard me. Why should you care whether the bastard ever wakes up again?_

_Because he's my _friend. Jonathan felt as if he'd been hit. He'd always know that Scarecrow hadn't forgiven the Joker for beating them, but he'd never known the animosity ran this deep. _I don't want anything like that to happen to him._

_He'd let it happen to you. He's used you as a distraction to get away more than once._

_I don't care. I can be better than that._

_You shouldn't feel inclined to._

He shook his head, as if that would clear Scarecrow's words from his mind. He reached out, hugged the Joker tightly. "I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you," he whispered into the Joker's ear, raising his head for a second to kiss the man's forehead. "I promise. You can come back whenever you want, if you want, and I'll take care of you. I'll protect you." _Please come back. _He added in his mind the words he could not say aloud. _I need you to protect me._

_Jesus Christ. How can you still trust him, after all he's done to you?_

_I _don't _trust him. _Jonathan ran a hand up and down the Joker's back, holding him close. _That doesn't change the fact that he makes me feel safer, in this situation._

_He broke your ribs._

_I know._

_He used your feelings to manipulate you, first for drugs, then for his emotional mind games, and then as bait. You are nothing but a toy to him, Jonathan._

_I know that. _But hopefully a favorite toy, one worth holding onto.

_He will only hurt you, if you give him the chance. _Scarecrow didn't sound argumentative anymore. Just exasperated. And worried. _He might not break your bones again, but he's going to destroy some other aspect of you._

_Most likely._

There was a pause. He'd managed to stun Scarecrow speechless. It was almost funny.

_If you know that, why are you still protecting him?_

_He loved me._

_No, he didn't. He used you._

Jonathan shrugged. It amounted to the same thing in his mind. _He paid attention to me._

Another pause. And then Scarecrow again, unsure. _Jonathan? _His voice was the smallest Jonathan had ever heard it. _Do you still love him?_

He considered it, sighed inwardly as he realized he didn't have an answer. _I don't think I know what love is._

_What you thought it was, then. Do you still feel that?_

He considered it. The Joker had put him through one hell after another, his nice moments only there to get Jonathan back on his side or for his own amusement. He'd given Jonathan the ride of his life and then ruined it, abruptly and without warning. Undermined his attempts afterwards at stability, and even tried to kill him. But throughout it all, he'd noticed Jonathan. He'd paid attention, seen the doctor's potential, even if it was only potential to be used. Anything was better than being ignored. And he knew that things could never go back to the way they had been, between them.

That didn't stop Jonathan from wishing, on some level, that they could. _Not…not as a lover, not anymore. But as a friend? Yes. I still feel that._

_Why?_

He brushed the Joker's hair out of his eyes. _He's all I have._

_No, he isn't. _Scarecrow's voice was like steel again. _You've got me._

The statement threw Jonathan. Of course he had Scarecrow; that was a given and they both knew it. What was Scarecrow going on about? He sounded almost envious, but that made no sense. Not knowing how to respond, he ignored the statement, content to hold his friend in silence until the Batman came back with lunch.

* * *

AN: The chapter title is taken from _What We Talk About When We Talk About Love_, a short story by Raymond Carver. It's about four people discussing the nature of love, only to realize they have no idea what love really is. I believe it's available online. "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love" was originally going to be the chapter title, but it was two characters too long.


	37. Costume

AN: Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Bruce Wayne had always been a light sleeper. At least, since the age of ten. In childhood it had been involuntary and distressing, waking from each and every nightmare his brain concocted instead of being able to brush it aside and remain asleep. He'd thought the nightmares about the bats were bad, when they first began, but that was nothing compared to the dreams he'd had in the months following his parents' murders. Even now, those were painful and frightening to recall.

Once he'd left Gotham, his ability to waken easily had become an attribute. On the streets and in prison—as well as with the Leagues of Shadows—there was a very high probability of waking in a less than ideal situation. If he was lucky, less than ideal amounted to waking up to find rats crawling over his body, the hungry ones biting. In more unfortunate circumstances, it meant awakening to find himself surrounded by possibly dangerous, always armed men.

But fortunate or not, it was better than not waking up at all.

He'd remained a light sleeper upon returning to Gotham, despite the fact that his home had only been threatened twice—well, three times now—and never while he was asleep. It wasn't an ability he could control, he supposed, and he didn't want to. It was still useful. It had lessened somewhat—staying up fighting through most of the night, and sometimes days on end before crashing tended to keep him out for a while—but slight noises could still jolt him into consciousness, and often did.

Which made it all the more odd that an intruder walking through his bedroom didn't wake him until said intruder turned on the light to his closet.

He woke up the instant the light came on, despite the fact that the closet door was almost entirely shut, and the beam of light coming through the gap could only be a few inches wide. It took his mind a moment to catch up with the rest of his body, but the second the moment was up he was out of the bed, a Batarang in either hand. Despite Alfred's lectures about his safety, he didn't consider sleeping with a weapon or two under the mattress to be paranoid, just cautious. Certainly it would pay off here.

Careful not to make a sound, he crossed the carpet to the closet door, listening. Someone was moving around inside, slowly. There was a rustling that he assumed was the sound of clothing being pushed around. He ran over the possibilities in his head as he approached. Definitely not Alfred; at far as he knew the man made a habit of getting normal amounts of sleep, and he was certain the butler would have mentioned it if he'd started putting Bruce's laundry away in the middle of the night. Alfred had too much common sense for that.

It could have been an intruder unrelated to either of the criminals in his house, just a thief trying to get as much of the Wayne fortune as he could. But Bruce doubted that so much he barely considered it. Logic dictated that the simplest explanation for an occurrence was the best, and it was far easier to believe that one of the villains had escaped than it was to think this was a completely separate occurrence. Besides, he couldn't see why a thief would decide anything in his closet was of great value. He wore expensive clothing, yes, but most of things throughout the mansion were even more expensive. Unless he had a crazed stalker breaking in for a souvenir, which was extremely unlikely, it was one of the villains.

Fantastic.

He couldn't conceive of any reason for Crane to come up here. Certainly none of the clothes in his closet would fit the doctor any better than the ones he'd given him, and he doubted that would be the man's priority in an escape attempt anyway. Though knowing Crane, it wasn't that much of a stretch; the man seemed to become distraught over minor things, like his sheets being dirty or his DVDs getting out of alphabetical order. He doubted Crane would leave the Joker alone for any period of time, however.

The Joker was the more likely of the two, despite how out of it he'd seemed when last Bruce saw him, a bit after midnight when he'd gone in to bar the windows. He hadn't seen much of the man, due to Crane's continued efforts to block Bruce from the clown's line of sight, but from what he had seen, the Joker looked as broken and lifeless as before, lying on his back and staring the general direction of the ceiling, barely blinking. But that didn't mean he couldn't have been faking. Or have recovered since. And he didn't need a reason to sneak into Bruce's closet, beyond 'I was bored and it was there.'

Alternately, it might be neither of them, but one of the Joker's henchmen instead. Both numbers, from the call at noon and the call at midnight, went to a payphone, but he had no way of knowing exactly what Crane—or perhaps the Joker—could have said. If he lived through this, Bruce would have to bug that cell phone. The entire mansion could be under invasion, and this was just the first intruder he'd heard.

But he couldn't see why a henchman would be in his closet either.

He moved in a way that put him to the side of the door, in case of gunfire, and kicked it open, readying a Batarang to throw if needed.

Jonathan Crane backed into the far wall of the closet, eyes twice as big as their usual wideness and his expression one of pure terror. For a moment, anyway. Then he composed himself, features settling back into a calmer but still shaken form. "I think your closet is bigger than my entire apartment was."

Bruce wondered if the doctor's body hadn't adjusted to his medication in an odd way that swapped 'inability to stop talking' with 'speaking only in non sequiturs.' Certainly he'd been saying more of them as of late. "How did you get in here?"

"Through the door."

"You know what I mean."

He shrugged. "Spend enough time at Arkham and you learn how to open any kind of lock." Bruce noticed that he was back in his own clothes, which meant he must have visited the laundry room, along with God knows where else in the house. He could have made his way into the kitchen or the weapons room. Bruce kept his distance. He didn't see any weapons, but that didn't mean anything.

What Jonathan Crane was holding that was visible was one of Bruce's dress shirts, light blue in color, and obviously far too large for the man. It was draped over his arm, and over that lay one of Bruce's vests, an ugly color that he'd never worn as he could never figure out whether it was green or gray. "What are you—"

"I don't suppose you have any purple pants, do you?" Crane asked, with a glance around the closet. "Or indigo, or anything? You don't seem the type to dress that way. I mean, of all the stupid things Bruce Wayne does that the papers and news cover when there isn't anything of substance to report, you're always dressed well. You might ruin your clothes by going swimming in them or something idiotic, but you've never actually worn something as stupid as a purple suit that I've seen. I don't know what's wrong with the area of his mind that should cover fashion sense, but apparently it's rather a lot."

It would seem he hadn't adjusted to the medication after all. Bruce waited until it became clear that the doctor wasn't going to go on the second he opened his mouth to speak before saying anything. "Why do you need purple pants?"

"For the Joker, obviously. I'm certainly not going to wear them." His hand disappeared between a rack of dress pants, reemerged with a pair of navy pinstripes. "Close enough. You have his coat, don't you?"

"Yes. What are you doing?"

"Trying to bring him out of a dissociative state by giving him familiar things, what does it look like? You're not a very good detective, you know."

Bruce held back the urge to respond with a comment about all the times he'd successfully tracked down Crane. The doctor seemed, for reasons that made sense only to himself, content to raid Bruce's closet when he could have been escaping, and Bruce didn't want to anger him and risk reminding him of how easy it would be to get out of the mansion should the mood strike him. "This couldn't have waited until morning?"

"Technically, it is morning. And no, not unless you wanted both of your captives to be absolutely miserable. The bed sheets need to be washed, by the way."

"What?"

"The sheets. I found your linen closet, so I've got new ones down there already, but I couldn't wash the sheets, or the clothes he was wearing. The detergent appears to be missing. And if you were hiding it in case you thought I'd break out, let me assure you that I've never tried to make toxin out of laundry chemicals, and I doubt that I could, now that I think about it. So I just left the dirty things on the floor."

He wondered if Alfred had hidden the bleach and such. Probably. The butler always seemed one step ahead of him in safeguarding the house, among other things. "Where's the Joker?"

"Sitting on the bed. I left him there. Seeing as I locked the door and I doubt he's recovered in the meantime, I think it's safe to assume that he hasn't gone." Crane glanced down at the items of clothing in his arms. "Where do you keep your socks?"

Oh, it was too early for this. "You can't just come in here in the middle of the night and—"

"It's hardly my fault if your security is subpar, Batman." He brushed past him, a slight shudder betraying his fear, found Bruce's dresser, and began searching through the drawers. "If you want to lecture me about it, I'd rather you do so later in the day. Getting someone who won't move of his own volition to stand up in a shower isn't exactly a restful task."

He found the socks, settled on a pair that mixed black, green, and yellow in color. They were argyle, in contrast to the Joker's usual checkered pattern, but it was the closest Bruce had, to his knowledge. "Why didn't you just give him a bath?"

Crane scowled, looking at him for the first time since he'd begun searching for pants. "Because. Are you giving me the coat, or not? Surely you've already removed all the weapons?"

"Will you go back to the room after that?" He didn't know why he was giving into this. He blamed stress and sleep deprivation. Of course Crane would be going back, because Bruce would be escorting him. But if giving him the coat would make him go back faster, and without struggle, then there was no logic in withholding it.

"Yes."

* * *

The Joker was in the same position Jonathan had left him in, and once the Batman had left—locking the door behind him and, from the sounds outside, barricading it—Jonathan helped him out of his robe and into what he'd amassed from the Batman's closet. It was a slow-going and laborious process. He'd never understand what made little girls crave life-size dolls so badly. Then again, those dolls didn't have all the dead weight of a real human being.

The effect wasn't nearly as good as the Joker's actual suit, which, ridiculous though it may be, was still nice in its design. The clothes he had on now clearly weren't made to go with each other, though they didn't clash too horribly, and it didn't work as well without a tie, which the Batman had considered too dangerous for them to have. Jonathan had expected that, and tried smuggling one in, but the Bat had found it when he searched him. The pants were too long and too wide—a belt hadn't been allowed for the same reason—as was the shirt and vest. He saved the coat for last, running the Joker's hands over it and holding it up for him to see before sliding it on him.

It might as well have been one of the Batman's coats, based on his reaction. That lack of a response was the most frightening thing Jonathan had seen since becoming the Batman's captive. Fighting to hide his fear, he turned his attention to the little jars of makeup sitting beside the Joker on the sheets.

He'd searched the coat thoroughly before putting it on his friend. The Batman, had, to his dismay, found each and every hiding place and removed the weapons from them, but thankfully he'd left the makeup behind. Jonathan wasn't sure what difference it would make, if the coat had failed to bring him back, but he had to try.

He unscrewed the lid from the jar of white, held it up so the Joker could see it. There was no reaction, no spark of life as Jonathan had been hoping for. Holding in a sigh and forcing his face to remain impassive, he dipped his fingers in the paint, then spread it smoothly across the Joker's forehead.

No. That wasn't right. _He doesn't make it even that way._ He brought his fingers back over, gently smearing what he'd done to make it thicker in some places, and absent in others. If he was going to recreate a safe environment for the man, it had to be accurate. He almost expected, as he went on applying the white, for the Joker's hands to close around his wrists, shove him away so the clown could do it properly himself.

By the time he'd started on the black, however, he'd lost hope of that happening. He closed the Joker's eyes, softly, painted, opened them again. Nothing. Nor was there an effect when he began with the lipstick, taking no care to keep it in the lines of the Joker's lips. He could have slapped himself for letting his hopes get so high. He put the lid back on the tube, waited. Nothing, of course.

"Do you want to see?" he asked, stroking the Joker's hair. "Come on, do you think you can make it to the mirror?" He put the Joker's arm over his shoulders, holding it there with one hand as he wrapped his free arm around the Joker, standing. Getting him to the bathroom took as much effort as it had taken to get him changed.

They stood before the mirror, or rather, Jonathan stood and held the Joker up. The clown stared in the direction of his reflection, and Jonathan could tell that he wasn't seeing himself. He couldn't even feel disappointed this time. It wasn't right. The coat and the makeup, yes, but everything else was off, from the blond hair to the lack of a tie to the color of the pants. It wasn't the Joker's world he'd recreated, not really. Just an imitation that couldn't hold a candle to the real thing.

He turned the Joker away from the mirror, hugging him tightly. "I'm sorry it isn't right," he whispered, speaking not just about the suit but the entire situation. He stroked his friend's face, heedless of the paint there. "I'm sorry." _If I were you, I wouldn't want to come back to this either._

* * *

The city was unusually quiet that night. It would figure that just when Bruce most needed a distraction from the chaos his home had become, there would be no crimes to stop. It wasn't the first time in his life when he'd questioned if the universe was out to get him, not by a long shot, and he doubted it would be the last.

He'd tapped the cell phone that morning, when he'd brought the pair breakfast. Crane hadn't interfered or even noticed, being too busy shielding the Joker from him. It was beyond unsettling, seeing his own clothing used to try and recreate the monster. He couldn't help but be happy that it hadn't worked.

The noon call had revealed no sinister plots or escape schemes. If the Joker or Crane had made some plan with the henchmen, it had been made before that call. It should have been reassuring, to know that his captives were held securely, and the city safe, but it wasn't.

How long could he keep them there? Not indefinitely, the Joker would have to run out of numbers at some point. The fact that he'd begun barricading the door wouldn't be worth much after a while, either. Crane was too conniving for such things to stop him for too long, as was the Joker, if he recovered. Or if he already had. Every minute they stayed in the mansion was another minute that they could escape, attack Alfred, reveal his secret.

Even if they did stay put, he didn't _want _them there. Having them around was miserable enough without the Joker's current condition serving as a constant reminder of yet another one of his failures. They were dangerous criminals, not house pets, and he wanted them gone. If only he had a way of ensuring the city wouldn't blow up and his secret wouldn't be exposed.

But he had no such way, and on top of that, with no criminals to apprehend, he had no outlet to relieve the tension. The night had been completely unproductive and he found himself so overwhelmed by all the stress as of late that he couldn't even be angry as he headed back for the mansion.

He found himself still in the Batsuit at a minute past midnight, as he removed the bookshelf that was barricading the door to the villains' room. He was too apathetic to change, wanting nothing more than to get in, assert that the call had been made, and get out, fall asleep, and for a few glorious hours, forget all about the situation.

He knocked, unlocked the door, and entered. Crane's eyes widened at the sight of the suit, though he didn't remark.

"Did you call?" He realized he'd spoken in the Bat-voice without thinking about it. Habit, he supposed, that went along with the suit.

"Yes, I—" He cut off, eyes widening again and no longer focused on Batman. Crane inhaled, sharply, and Bruce had just enough time to register that he was staring at the Joker, that the Joker had turned his head and was looking at Batman, before there was a sudden blur of purple and an impact against him, knocking him backwards. He collided with the wall, bounced back, and felt arms wind tightly around him as he collapsed on the floor.

"Bats!" The Joker's face was above his own, so animated it seemed impossible to think that he'd been nearly comatose for the past two days. He had never seen the Joker's face look so joyful, so truly, harmless happy, and it was every bit as unnerving as the dissociation had been. The Joker hugged him tighter, tears coming to his eyes as his grin widened as far as the scars would allow it to go. "Bats. You don't know how much I've missed you."


	38. Dazed and Confused

AN: Useless comment of the day: I should not listen to the _Charlie the Unicorn _videos will writing fan fiction; they mix with Batman in my mind. In my defense, Charlie and Bats have a lot in common, attitude-wise, and I can absolutely picture the Joker shouting randomness such as "We're on a bridge" and "The door can see into your soul!"

On a more serious note, I want to give a special thanks to all the anonymous reviewers that I can't respond to. It means a lot to me that you're willing to leave comments.

Thanks for the reviews! I never expected to reach five hundred.

* * *

Happy Joker somehow managed to be just as disturbing as Weepy Joker.

He shouldn't have been; certainly he looked more like himself now than he had when he'd been sobbing. The clothing wasn't quite right, aside from the coat, and as carefully chaotic as Crane had made the makeup—Batman realized he'd managed to paint over the scabs without reopening the infected wound—it still didn't look as if the Joker had applied it himself. Still, it was close, as close as could be done under the circumstances, and only the lack of green tint to the hair kept it from being a passable imitation.

But it wasn't the appearance that made him look off. It was the expression.

The Joker smiling wasn't anything new. Batman could count on one hand the times he'd seen the clown _not _grinning so widely it was almost physically impossible. It should have been physically impossible, given his scars. It had to be painful, at least. But this wasn't the smile he'd gotten used to. It was the smile of a child who'd just been reunited with a lost puppy, as opposed to the smirk of a lunatic who'd just opened fire in a nursing home. Even when he'd been sobbing and terrified, a spark of the monster inside had been visible, up until the breaking point. That was gone now, replaced with pure, innocent joy.

It made him even more uncomfortable than the hug.

"Get _off,_" he growled, pushing to no effect whatsoever. If anything, the Joker held on tighter.

"I missed you," the Joker said, for what must have been the hundredth time. "God, this is wonderful. It's like the Fourth of July, Batsy."

"_What_?" He had no idea what was going on in the Joker's head—thank heaven for small comforts—and he wasn't sure that the clown did either. He didn't just look bizarrely happy, he looked dazed, the way he tended to after being concussed. _It's like he's getting drunk off my presence._ Oh, there was a mental image he could have done without. "Let go."

"And risk you vanishing into thin air like a vanishing thing?" He squeezed tighter again, managing to make it painful through the armor. Bruce was fairly sure his ribs were starting to crack. "No way."

"You don't make any sense." This was ridiculous, he ought to be strong enough to break out of a hug, especially after the martial arts training. And the fact that the Joker seemed to have lost what little hold on reality he had left. "Stop hugging me."

The Joker giggled, also in an oddly innocent way that sounded nothing like his usual rasp of a laugh. Bruce wasn't sure if he'd heard the command at all. He certainly looked dazed enough to have blocked out words.

"Joker. Off." The clown giggled again, and with a sigh, Batman turned his head to look up at Crane, still seated on the bed. "Make him get up."

"And just how do you propose I do that?" He sounded sullen, eyes focused on the Joker. His arms were crossed over his chest, expression unreadable.

"You're the psychiatrist." It felt as if he was being to asphyxiate. "You tell me."

"He's _happy_, you idiot." His voice dripped with scorn. "Let him have his moment. God knows the last few days have been horrible for him, thanks to you."

Another innocuous laugh. "Jonny called ya stupid."

"Really." He tried to ignore the Joker, an increasingly impossible task given that the man's hair was now brushing against the exposed parts of his face. The fact that his hair smelled like shampoo for once as opposed to blood, grime, and dye didn't make it any less annoying. If anything, it was only another reminder of how disconcertingly un-Joker this was. Deciding his sanity would fare better if he didn't pay attention to this nonsense, he looked to Crane once more. "Exactly how long is this 'moment' going to last?"

The doctor shrugged, glaring down at him. "Until he feels secure enough to let go." He paused, smirked slightly. "Hours, maybe."

Lovely. So now the captive capable of some rationality was angry at him for no apparent reason. _Is he upset that the Joker recovered?_ But that made no sense; he couldn't have enjoyed being the man's caretaker if he'd tried so hard to snap him out of it. Maybe he was angry because Batman had succeeded where he hadn't.

Come to think of it, why had Batman been the one to wake him up? He'd been the one to break him in the first place, the idea that the Batsuit was enough to erase that association was just stupid. And the Joker was anything but stupid. "Joker."

There was no response.

"_Joker_." He pushed against him again. The spikes of the armor must be digging painfully into the clown's clothing and skin, but when he pulled back he looked anything but hurt. His eyes were still sparkling with that intoxicated and distant light, and he was still giggling like a little girl around her crush.

"Yeah, Bats?"

And to think he'd thought the Joker _without _makeup was unnerving. Even when his paint was gone, his expressions had never looked this calm, this _human._ Bruce didn't like it. Logically, the Joker was a person, and Bruce had told him that more than once. Hell, it was pointing out that unpleasant fact that had given the Joker a breakdown in the first place. Still, knowing that was one thing. _Seeing _it was quite another.

Seeing it was beyond uncomfortable.

"What are you so happy to see me for anyway? Aren't you—" He paused before he could say 'upset.' Reminding the Joker of his moment of weakness, especially in such a compromising situation, could be a very bad idea. The man was about as a stable as a half-dismantled Jenga tower. "Angry?"

Joker stared, sucking on the inside of his cheek. "Angry? Why would I be angry?" He gave Batman a scrutinizing look, as if expecting to find the answers in the vigilante's appearance. "Ya didn't start a, uh, torrid love affair behind my back or something, right? 'Cause that's not cool. You're _my_ Bat." He looked serious as he could while so out of it for approximately one second, and then collapsed into a helpless laughing fit on top of Batman.

If he could get free, Bruce wasn't sure he'd be able to keep himself from punching the man. "_Joker_."

"Don't push him about it," Crane said, suddenly. The scorn and anger were gone, though his voice held the subtle condescending tone it always had. It seemed almost unintentional. "If he repressed it, you'll do serious damage by bringing it up before he's ready."

He considered it. He preferred Lethargic Joker to Dazed and Confused Joker, beyond a shadow of doubt, but the former version did make life that much more difficult. "How serious?"

"Don't do it." It was impressive, really, how deep and intimidating the doctor's voice could get in comparison to his slight stature.

"If you don't want me to, get him off," he responded, voice just as hard.

Crane glared as he stood, walking over to them with just a hint of a limp. His injuries had either healed quickly or he was good at hiding them. He knelt beside the pair, Batman still pinned to the floor by the Joker's embrace. "Joker?"

If the Joker heard him, he didn't acknowledge it. It seemed he wasn't seeing the world beyond Batman at the moment.

"Joker." He held his hand close to the clown's head, snapped his fingers.

He looked up, focusing on Crane for the first time since waking. For a moment he looked bewildered, as though he'd just noticed his other companion. Then his eyes focused somewhat. "Oh. Hi, Jonny."

"Hi, Joker. Do you want to get off of the floor?" He spoke slowly, as if talking to a very young child.

"Nope. Hugging." He tightened his grip again in emphasis, and Batman was sure he felt his lungs forced shut.

"You don't want to see your new room?"

"Huh?" He sat up, finally ending the hug, though he was still sitting on Batman's legs. He turned his head as far as it would go in each direction, taking things in. He looked lost as ever, though he managed to focus enough to pin Batman's shoulders back down when he realized the man was trying to struggle his way to freedom. "Hey, it's not all concrete and death. Where are we?"

"In the Batman's house. He moved us in here when you were asleep."

"You gave me a room that wasn't a cinderblock hell?" The Joker stared down at Batman again, positively sparkling with joy. Well, that could lead nowhere good. "You're the best Bat ever." He leaned down again, lightning fast, and before Batman could stop him, kissed him straight on the mouth.

He did hit him then, and hard enough to send the clown flying back against the bed.

* * *

Batman had punched him. Batman had _punched _him. _Batman _had punched _him._ Forget the Fourth of July, this was better than Christmas and Halloween and Easter mixed together. He wasn't sure why getting attention from the Bat felt so much more wonderful than usual. All he knew was that it did, and he didn't want to waste the moment by dwelling on the 'whys.' He collapsed against the side of the bed, giggling helplessly.

Someone—Jonny, judging by the size of the hands—had hold of him, trying to pull him up. It could have been the Queen Mother herself and he wouldn't have cared. He didn't feel gloves, so it wasn't Batsy, and not worth his attention.

"Fantastic, Batman," Jonny was saying, as he dragged the Joker onto the bed. He had an odd way of making Batsy's name sound like two separate words. "Absolutely fantastic. I'm sure concussing him will help to level him out."

"He violated me."

"He's got the mindset of a three-year-old on sugar at the moment. I'm sure his usual sexual fixation was the last thing he was thinking about. You just wanted to hit him."

Ah, Jonny. Silly little scaredy cat and his need to overanalyze everything. He took Jonny's wrists and pulled him down on the bed beside him. He looked angry. Well, anger mixed with something else. "Leave Bats alone, angel. It's not his fault he doesn't know how to show his affection." He glanced around the room again, noting the adjoining bath. The only other door, beside the closet, led to the hall. "So…where's your bedroom?"

"We're sharing."

Sharing? He blinked. Well, that was going to cramp his lifestyle. "Er…so where are you gonna go when Batsy and I have 'grown up time'?" He might fit under the bed, but that would be really awkward, as would the closet.

"Jesus Christ." Batman stood, looking so deliciously angry. "That's it, I'm going to bed."

"Can I have a goodnight kiss?" he asked. Beside him, Jonny groaned for no apparent reason.

Bats ignored him, turning his attention to the ex-psychiatrist. "You. Either fix this or I'm breaking his jaw."

The Joker frowned. Batsy shouldn't be ignoring him for Jonny. He'd been joking about the torrid love affair, but if the Scarecrow was involved with the Bat behind his back, he was going to cut him open. And then use the straw inside to start the fire he'd set to this mansion.

"Your respect for the therapeutic process is truly admirable, Batman."

Bats muttered something else in his ridiculous yet somehow sexy growl and stomped out of the room. There was a sound like he was shoving something up against the door. The Joker was contemplating what it could be and how he was going to go about breaking out when he felt Jonny's arms wrapping around him, hugging like a scared little girl. "Jonny?"

"I missed you so much." The words were muffled, as his face was all but buried in the Joker's shoulder. Hey, the purple coat of sex was back. When had that happened?

Come to think of it, what was Jonny talking about? Missed him? He hadn't gone anywhere, right? Though…he couldn't remember how he'd gotten in this room. Last he remembered, he'd been talking to Bruce Wayne in the cell, but now that he considered it, he couldn't remember what they'd been talking about. Or how he'd gone from there to here. It seemed like he'd needed a hiding place or something, as if he was playing hide and seek inside his head. But he couldn't remember what he'd been hiding from. Bruce? That was stupid. He didn't like Bruce, or even the _idea _of Bruce, but he wasn't afraid of him.

Not that he recalled, anyway.

However he'd gotten here, he realized he didn't want to think about it. The kickboxing butterflies in his stomach had started back up again, albeit faintly. Whatever the reason, it couldn't be too important. He wasn't in that boring little cell anymore, and that was all that mattered. The Joker turned his attention to the scarecrow clinging to him like a leech. "You can, uh, let go now. I'm not going anywhere."

"You held onto him for five minutes," Jonny muttered, so quietly that he wouldn't have heard it if not for their close proximity.

He raised his eyebrows. Jonny was jealous? He'd thought they were past that; the strawman was always so vocal in his claims of 'we're just friends' when he was even willing to admit that. Not that that meant a damn thing, but it had crushed Harley to hear about the two of them, and Harley was Jonny's best friend, aside from the brainless voice in his head. He'd have thought Jonny would bury any feelings he might have out of respect for her.

Then again, his fun new meds seemed to make burying things pretty hard. "That's 'cause he completes me," the Joker told him, stroking his hair. "Don't be jealous, that's just how it is."

"Jealous?" Jonny bolted up at once, face going to what he probably thought was an impassive look. "I'm not jealous, don't be ridiculous."

"Don't be ashamed," he countered, taking his friend's hand. "I mean, I'm your first love, it's only natural that you'd be feeling some attachment even after—"

"Who on Earth said you were first?"

He rolled his eyes. Jonny was adorable when he was in denial, but also rather annoying. "Can ya name even one relationship you've had before me?"

"I asked a girl to prom once," he said immediately.

The Joker blinked. He'd expected him to have to think about it. "Operative word being 'asked.' Lemme guess, Carrie, it didn't turn out?"

"No. But that's not the point."

"Sure, it's not." Jonny looked so put out, he had to reach out and ruffle his hair. His friend jerked away and he giggled. "Don't be so uptight."

"Don't touch me."

"You touched me a second ago." He stroked Jonny's hair again, then remembered his own and pulled out a strand. Blond. Clean and untangled, but still blond. Well, that just wouldn't do. He retracted his hand and stood, wincing when he caught sight of the rest of his clothes. "What am I wearing?"

"I tried to recreate your suit for you. Given that I only had the Batman's clothes to work with, it didn't take."

He blinked again. "He gave his clothes to you?"

"No, I raided his closet."

The Joker laughed, pulling Jonny up beside him. "Good job, kitten. Now come on, we're going on an adventure."

* * *

AN: "Carrie" refers to the novel by Stephen King, in which the title character massacres her classmates on prom night.

"Jenga" is a game that involves making a tower of blocks and pulling the blocks out one by one until the tower collapses.


	39. The Wonderful Thing About Jokers

AN: Jonathan's rant about injuries comes from all the times he's gotten the short end of the stick in my other stories. Which is rather a lot.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

"An adventure," Jonathan repeated, tensing slightly as he was pulled off the bed. He tried to imagine what could be going on in the Joker's overjoyed mind, and none of it was good. Normal people, when happy, went on walks or watched movies or spent time with their loved ones, or something. He couldn't see the Joker doing any of those, unless the movie was a snuff film, or time with loved ones meant going into the Batman's room and jumping up and down on his massive bed.

"Yeah." He dragged Jonathan to the door. At least he wasn't half-skipping anymore. Perhaps that was a sign that he'd calmed down somewhat. Perhaps.

"The door is barricaded." He looked around for something to hide under. The last thing he wanted was to piss off the already angry Bat by breaking out and playing hide and seek through the mansion, or whatever the Joker wanted.

The clown shrugged, already fiddling with the door. "See Jonny, the wonderful thing about Jokers…" He trailed off, looking to Jonathan expectantly.

"What?" It seemed he hadn't calmed down yet after all. That, or dissociation had permanently scrambled his mind.

"I was waiting for you to finish the line."

It was too early for this. Far too early. "What line?"

"You poor deprived child." The Joker shook his head, his expression full of deepest sympathy.

"I'm older than you are."

He shrugged. "Not mentally. Anyway, the wonderful thing about Jokers is that they can't be kept in captivity for long. They've always got a way of weaseling out." He released Jonathan's hand, turning his full attention to the door. It clicked open after a minute or so of struggle, and he leaned against it, pushing as hard as he could. There was no effect at all, for a moment, and Jonathan was just moving forward to offer what help he could when the door began to slide open, inch by glacially-paced inch. "See?"

"I think I prefer to stay inside." He wondered if it was too late to go hide somewhere in the closet. Yes, yes it probably was.

"Ever heard the expression about when opportunity knocks, scaredy cat?"

"It didn't knock." He crossed his arms, tried to look as intimidating as all five foot nine inches of himself could. "It forced its way past the lock and then shoved aside a barricade. There's no expression about that."

The Joker shook his head and grinning in a way that made Jonathan fear for his life, slightly. He took it as a sign that his friend was finally going back to 'normal.' The clown reached out, grabbed his hand before he could stop him. "C'mon, you'll have fun." He started walking, quickly, and Jonathan followed to avoid having his arm pulled from the socket. The thing that had been blocking the door turned out to be a bookshelf. It was empty, because that was just the sort of life that Jonathan led.

"That's what you always say. And I've noticed that I usually end up injured afterward." He wished the Joker would slow down. It was painful, moving at this speed. His ankles weren't fully healed. Neither were his wrists, come to think of it, but the Joker wasn't tugging hard enough on his hand to hurt.

"So? How is that not fun?"

Before he could respond, the Joker stopped without warning, causing Jonathan to walk straight into him. Jonathan stepped back, pushed his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. The Joker was looking up and down the hall, transfixed by God knows what. "What's wrong?" He felt a twinge of anxiety. Just because his friend had acted more like himself when they were leaving the room didn't mean that he was back to normal. He had just gone through massive psychological trauma, after all. Letting him out of a controlled environment might not have been the best plan.

"This place is really, really big."

"Is it? I hadn't noticed." He'd only gotten lost about five different times last night, trying to find the Batman's closet and the laundry room. Not that the Joker knew about all the effort that it had taken him. He wasn't going to mention it. What difference did it make? Knowing the Joker, he wouldn't be grateful, and Jonathan didn't need his validation in the first place. He'd gotten used to going to incredible lengths with little to no thank you on the patients he'd actually helped as a psychiatrist. The fact that this was one of his best friends, and not a stranger randomly assigned to his care, shouldn't make any difference.

Didn't. It didn't make any difference. So all of his attempts to coax the Joker back to reality fell flat and his efforts in feeding, protecting, and otherwise caring for the man had gone completely overlooked. It didn't matter. It was only to be expected that the Batman would be able to provide the component he couldn't, given the Joker's obsession with the man, and he was not going to lose himself to an emotional fit over it. That was beneath him. It may have troubled him for a moment, right as the Joker snapped back to awareness, but he'd almost entirely lost the urge to hunt down the Batman and tear his throat out by whatever means necessary.

"Oh, cheer up, Jonny." He felt his hand tugged forward and he collided into the Joker again, to be embraced this time. "Aren'tcha glad to be out of the cell?"

He was, since the dripping and the constantly flickering light was gone—though now he'd become hypersensitive about things like the feel of the carpet—but at the same time, this mansion disgusted him. The Batman was so rich he could throw money away by the millions on his ridiculous Bat-gadgets and still live in such extravagance, and for what? Being born. It was sickening. Jonathan had struggled every day of his life to make ends meet, first as a poor farmer boy, and then as a poor college and grad student. He'd barely made administrator and settled into a life of having money, for the first time, before the Batman had come along and ruined it all.

He was reminded of the time he'd lectured the Batman about wasting money on things like a Batmobile when it could be put to much better, more practical uses. At the time, he'd only been trying to get a rise out of the man, but upon reflection, he'd been absolutely right.

Not that the Joker would care about any of these reflections, however, and he was still expecting an answer. "Jonny?"

"Yes. I'm glad to be out of the cell." He let himself be hugged, though he didn't return the embrace. An irrational part of him, somewhere close to the part of his mind where Scarecrow resided, was angry at the Joker for the lack of recognition and appreciation, though he knew his friend couldn't help it. "I'm overcome with happiness."

"You're doing that, uh, 'sarcasm to cover your insecurities' thing again, kitten." The Joker let go, though still held his hand, and began to walk again. "You should really talk to your shrink about that."

"Where are we going?"

"You're changing the subject. And you'll know when we get there."

Another thing about mansions that he noticed, while being led, was that they were creepy. It wasn't the darkness of the place, but the size. With all the giant rooms and the multitude of doorways, anything could be lurking around a corner. The fact that this was the Batman's house didn't help in the slightest. "Joker, we should go back."

"You worry too much."

"Considering that every time I've been around you and the Batman at once I either end up horribly injured or emotionally wrecked, I'd say that I have every right to be worried. You've never ended up in traction, or had your fingers and ribs and collarbone broken all at once on top of a concussion and a ruptured eardrum, or been held down and interrogated—and by interrogated I mean beaten—by your worst enemy because your so-called true love decided you made a better distraction than a companion. You've never had a madman declare that he's going to kill you because you inadvertently got the Batman's attention in the middle of a nervous breakdown and had said madman hunt you down while you're still emaciated and then have him try to kill you, first with a flamethrower and then with a knife, and then with the flamethrower again before quitting for no adequately explored reason and giving you a speech on how he's giving up only because you've become boring to him—"

"And we're here." The Joker extended his free hand, flipped a light switch. Illumination flooded the room and after Jonathan's eyes adjusted, he realized they were standing in a kitchen. A kitchen that was most definitely bigger than his entire apartment. "Finished ranting, Jonny, or do ya need another minute?"

He considered mentioning the time the Joker had moved all of his belongings out of an apartment and into a house on the other side of the city without telling him, or when he'd given him a horse on the same day without giving him a place to put it. But it would only amuse the Joker, he knew. "I think I'm through."

"Good." The Joker released his hand and was, within seconds, standing on the kitchen counter, searching through a cabinet. "You know, it's not that you're not funny when you can't shut up—'cause you are—but sometimes it really makes me want to sew your mouth shut."

"Blame Leland, not me." Curiosity kept him from taking the moment to bolt back to the bedroom, where the chance of the Batman killing or beating him was significantly less. Marginally, at least. "What are you doing?"

"I don't see your big objection to it. The mouth on your mask is sewn shut, isn't it?"

What was it with the Joker and his obsession with mutilating some part of Jonathan's body? First he'd wanted to steal his eyes, and now this. "What are you doing?"

"God, he's got everything organized by food type," the Joker said, shuffling down the counter to open the next cabinet. "Look, here's all the drink stuff. Do ya think Batman drinks Kool-Aid?"

He forgot, for a moment, that he'd wanted to know what the Joker was up to. The statement was just bizarre enough to make his mind go blank. "Excuse me?"

"Do you think he drinks Kool-Ai—never mind, there's none here." He moved down again, though he gave the cabinet another glance. "This stuff is in alphabetical order, Jonny. Alphabetical order. He needs to get laid. Badly."

Jonathan felt his patience snap under the enormous strain. "Will you stop fixating on the Batman's sex life for the five seconds it would take to give me a straight answer? This is—this is beyond idiotic! You were too off in your happy place, I suppose, to realize just how much you pissed the Bat off with your latest antics, but trust me, he was six seconds from breaking your skull against the nearest hard object. We do not need to be sullying his kitchen in the middle of the night, because we're going to get beaten for this, and while that's about the equivalent of sex to you, I enjoy it far less. And by far less I mean not at all. I would like nothing more than to go back and sleep right now but I feel like I should stay with you because you recovered from a complete psychotic break less than an hour ago and I have no idea how stable you are, not that you care or appreciate any of the lengths I went to for you over the past two days. So the least you can do is stop talking about Kool-Aid and tell me what the hell we're doing."

"Indoor voice, Jonny," the Joker said, completely unfazed by the rant. "See, that's the sorta thing that makes me want to sew your lips together. Or staple 'em, whatever's easier." He giggled at Jonathan's expression, speaking again just before his friend could start shouting. "I just need to find one little thing, and then we can go, okay? Relax. Why don't you eat or something while I'm looking?"

"That is not an answer."

"_Relax._" He moved to another cabinet. "Or at least get something in your mouth so you'll shut up."

He felt his patience—well, it had already snapped, so he supposed the broken pieces were just shattering even more. "Look, I've spent the last two days protecting you and feeding you and making sure you weren't left lying in puddles of your own waste, so the least you can do is tell me just what the hell—"

"And now you're trying my good nature." There was just the faintest hint of a threat in his voice. "Here's what you're going to do, Jonny. Go find a fork or spoon or something, and occupy yourself with chewing as opposed to bitching until I say otherwise."

"Don't tell me what to-"

"One."

For a second, he was bewildered. Then he realized the clown was actually counting to three, like a parent did with a disobedient child. _For the love of God. _"You cannot be serious—"

"_Two._"

"Joker, you—"

"_Two and a half_."

"Listen, you idiot, you cannot treat me as if I'm—" He fell silent, eyes focusing on a box sitting on a shelf of a cabinet the Joker had left open. "The Batman eats Funfetti?"

"Something else, Jonny. We are not baking a cake."

"Who said anything about baking it?" Jonathan responded, taking the box and opening drawers in search of a spoon. "It's better this way."

The Joker stared at him, looking truly disgusted. "That's like, flour and baking soda and sprinkles, kitten."

"Like I said, it's better this way."

"That's repulsive." He shuddered, went back to searching.

"Says the man who's been known to chew on his victims' severed body parts." He procured a spoon, opened the box.

"That was just the one time. You weren't even there. Ooh, jackpot!" Irritation gone from his tone at once, he jumped down to the floor, box in hand.

"What is that?"

"Food coloring." He held it up. "See? And there's green in it."

_Why would it matter if there's_—He understood, suddenly, and the spoon nearly fell out of his mouth. "You broke out to dye your hair?"

"Well, yeah." He pulled a small green bottle from the box, walked to the sink. "Never used food coloring before. But I guess it's not that different from Kool-Aid."

"And this was so important that we had to come here in the dead of night?"

"As if it would have worked in the dead of, uh, day. Besides, I like my hair to be interesting."

Jonathan glanced at the food coloring package. "And red, yellow, and blue weren't interesting enough?"

"Clashes with the outfit. Hey, I don't hear ya eating."

He held in a sigh as he watched the man pour food additives over himself. This was stupid and pointless and just asking for them to get caught and either injured or taken back to the cells, but at least there was cake. Or, the dry ingredients of it, anyway. With sprinkles.

"Hey, Jonny? Am I getting this even?"

"Like you care."

"There's artfully chaotic, and then there's just stupid."

Jonathan shrugged. "Go find a mirror. I'm not supposed to talk, remember?"

"That's friendly."

"I'm not a friendly person."

"Excuse me." The voice came from behind, unexpectedly, and Crane just had time to register, as he stiffened and turned, that it wasn't the Batman's. Or Bruce Wayne's.

He was old, whoever he was, but he didn't look weak. He looked calm, though Crane noted that his stance was defensive, as if he could take both of them out should they give him trouble. Considering that this was the Batman's mansion, he probably could. Wonderful. Stuck in a kitchen with a Joker halfway through his hair-dying process—likely oblivious to everything around him—and what appeared to be the Batman's bodyguard or something, apparently imported from Britain. He found himself unable to speak.

"May I inquire as to why you're out of the spare bedroom?"

Crane got the all too familiar feeling that he was in for it.

* * *

AN: Joker was waiting for Crane to finish the line with either "Jokers are wonderful things" or "you're the only one." Yes, he watches _Winnie the Pooh. _No, I don't know why.

Funfetti is a type of cake with sprinkles in the mix that melt into colored splotches in the cake. While researching narcissism, I found that many narcissists have strange eating habits, and will have no problem with consuming things like dry mixes, match heads, pencils, paper, and dog food.


	40. Calculating

AN: I'm sorry to say that I won't be updating tomorrow, as I'll be in Cincinnati all day without a computer, to see _Avenue Q. _Sorry everyone, as well as an apology for the delay on this chapter.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Jonny had been wrong in his guess that the Joker was oblivious to the world around him at present. In actuality, he was as aware of his surroundings as he always was, and that was very aware. He didn't go around broadcasting the fact, but truth be told he wasn't the greatest of fighters, when it came to hand-to-hand combat. And if enough people started charging at once, no amount of cunning tricks or brilliant plans could stop them. So he had to be mindful of the rest of the world, boring as it was, because if he wasn't, he'd have died by now. Several times over. As long as he knew an attack was coming, nine and a half times out of ten, he could evade it. And the half a time he couldn't was never fatal.

At least, not yet.

He'd known someone was coming long before Jonny, anyway. A big place like this? Footsteps tended to echo a bit in the halls. Faintly, but audible if one was paying attention. Which he had been, even over the bitching. From the walk, he doubted it had been Batsy, and that was confirmed by the voice when the guy had entered the room. Whoever he was, he was wandering around Wayne Manor as if he owned the place—much like the villains were—which the Joker took to mean that he was either a friend of the Bat's or in the vigilante's employ. He didn't sound surprised to see them, so employee was more likely, or a friend close enough to know the Bat secret.

Whoever he was, he was an idiot for coming in here as if he could take the two of them. The Joker had yet to take a look at the guy, but even if he was some sort of steroid-chugging Goliath, the Clown Prince of Crime was small and fast. And they were in a kitchen, sure to have knives somewhere. The only reason he'd yet to pull his head out of the sink and have all this finished in a minute or so was because he expected Jonny to handle it. The man was a villain, after all, though the idea of Jonny being able to do damage to anyone was still ridiculous. But perhaps he'd been underestimating the scarecrow. He stayed where he was, continuing to pour coloring over his hair as he waited for Jonny to prove himself.

Besides, he didn't want to stand up and get dye all over his coat.

As fate would have it, however—and as he should have expected—the straw man completely blew his opportunity. From what the Joker could see and hear, not only was Jonny failing to make any sorts of threats or attacks, but he'd actually backed up a tiny bit. _Why did I hope for anything different?_ he thought, shrugging his coat off with a faint sigh. Jonny just had to get shy at the least opportune moments. He didn't even have the sense to let Scarecrow handle things, it seemed. As always, it was up to the Joker.

He slid the coat off completely, laying it on the counter a good distance away before he raised his head. The food coloring trickled down his hair and neck at once, and despite being room temperature, it felt mildly like ice water. He ignored the sensation, and turned to face this newcomer, mentally preparing a speech about the importance of giving guests privacy.

And then he got a good look at the man and stopped.

Physically, there was nothing intimidating about him, though he knew how to hold himself. He looked as if he'd had experience fighting, but he was old. Definitely in his seventies. Late sixties, at the least, and the Joker doubted that. With the element of surprise, he might have been able to take one of the villains, but now? No way. It hadn't been his stature or posture that had given the Joker pause, however, but his expression.

The Joker inspired a variety of emotions in the common man, the most common of which was terror. Paralyzing terror, fighting-for-life terror, mind-snapping terror, but always terror of some sort. On the occasions that he didn't inspire fear, he was usually the cause of anger, certainly from Bats and the GPD, but also from the odd victim or henchclown or fellow Arkhamite. He provoked other emotions as well, such as happiness and amusement and lust, but those were few and far in between when compared with anger and fear. This man had neither.

Well, perhaps a bit of anger. But less "How dare you invade the sanctity of this home" and more a sort of 'why are you eating cookies, I said dinner was in an hour' kind of look. And certainly no fear. Joker wasn't sure what threw him more; the calm or the irritation. He could see why the man had given Jonny pause. Not that that was an excuse for the scaredy cat's fear. There was no excuse for that, besides that he sucked at villainy.

"And you are?" he asked, with a slight smirk. Usually, that was enough to make most everyone nervous. Cautious, at least. The stranger in the doorway didn't react in the slightest.

"Master Wayne's butler."

Ah, he was British. Maybe that was the explanation for the lack of expression. Stiff upper lip and all that. _Bats imports the hired help. Why does that not surprise me?_ "That's, uh, not a name."

"Neither is 'the Joker.'" He didn't say it as an insult; just a statement of fact. His eyes left the Joker's—an incredibly reckless thing to do, but the Joker found himself too preoccupied with figuring the man out to take advantage of the moment—and focused on Jonny. "And you're Dr. Crane?"

Jonny, who'd been trying to move as to hide behind the Joker without anyone noticing, stopped and nodded. He looked slightly less like he was fearing death, and the Joker made a note to call him 'doctor' the next time he wanted something from the man. Pathetic, really, how easily manipulated he was.

The butler turned back to the Joker. "I'd repeat my question, but judging from your hair I'd say it's rather obvious."

The Joker couldn't decide if he liked this guy or not. He did have the balls to stand, apparently unarmed, within ten feet of Gotham's greatest villain—and Jonny, who was thought to be a threat for some reason—and hold a casual conversation. And his flat, matter-of-fact delivery was entertaining. However, there was the small issue of his not being at all intimidated or impressed, and the only person the Joker would accept that attitude from was Batsy.

"Blond's not really my style," he said, both by way of explanation and to pass the time while he decided whether or not he was going to kill this guy. He _was _interesting, and he had guts, but the Joker didn't appreciate when people who should be cowering in fear, weren't. Not to mention that he seemed well into retirement age and was not only still hanging around, but apparently knew Bruce Wayne's secret. He didn't like the idea of anyone being that close to his Bat, besides him.

He felt dye dripping down his neck and shoulders, soaking into the cloth against his skin. "I, uh, think I might have gotten food coloring on Batman's shirt," he said, to gauge the butler's reaction.

The man looked as if he might have shrugged, if he wasn't so British. "That's all right. It comes out with vinegar." His gaze moved down briefly, then back up. "You'll want to use lemon juice on your hands, though."

"Eh?" The Joker glanced down and realized he'd managed to dye his hands green along with his hair. "Oh. I take it you have that?"

A nod. "Granted, I've never tried it, but aren't you supposed to mix the food coloring with something else before you try that?"

Maybe he wouldn't kill the butler. He was a useful repository of knowledge, if nothing else. "Like what?"

"Shampoo?" Jonny spoke up for the first time and flushed, slightly, when they turned to look at him. "That's what they use with Kool-Aid, if I recall correctly."

He licked his lips, realizing just how much he'd missed the familiar taste of lipstick when the paint was off. "And you didn't mention this when I started because why?"

"You told me not to talk."

The Joker's eye twitched slightly. It occurred to him that Jonny's hair had gotten longer since last they'd been in Arkham together. He wanted to pull it, badly. Like, out of his head. He was preparing to do just that when the butler cleared his throat again.

"Your hair's light enough that the coloring should still stain it. I'd say it'll last for a few washes at least."

So a month at least, considering how little he washed his hair. He relented to not scalping the scarecrow. He could always save that for some other offense.

"Did you mean to leave that bit at the back blond for stylistic purposes, or did you just miss a spot?" the butler added, as the Joker turned to face him again.

Maybe he would kill him, after all. "Where in the back?"

"About three inches behind your left ear. You'll likely need lemon juice on your ears and face as well."

"I'll paint over it." He leaned over the sink again, resumed dumping the stuff on his hair. The last thing he wanted was to part with the makeup again. He'd rather walk around looking like the Grinch underneath it.

"You can keep eating, if you're hungry," he heard the butler say, presumably to Jonny, who, as far as the Joker knew was still standing unmoving, box and spoon in white-knuckled hands. The man seemed to operate on the same principle as a rabbit; if he couldn't move, he'd freeze. At least he managed to keep from shaking and maintain an impassive expression as he did. It was sad, honestly, what a coward he was. Sure, being faced with someone so totally unaffected by their presence was unsettling, but that was no reason to noticeably freak out. There were standards to be upheld, after all.

He didn't hear a response from Jonny, which he took as a sign that his friend had done that 'just barely nod and then stay exactly as I was before you made a suggestion' thing he did so well. The Joker had to wonder where Scarecrow was at times like this. Did he not realize that his alter ego was completely emasculating the both of them, or did he just not care?

He raised his head again, shaking his hair out like a dog. Little green splotches appeared on the countertop around him, as Jonny stepped to the other side. "Have I got it all this time?"

"Alfred? I heard voices, is—" The voice stopped at the Joker whirled to face the door. It was less deep and gravelly, but there was no mistaking the voice of the Batman.

Or Bruce Wayne, as the case was at the moment. A disheveled Bruce Wayne, one who looked as if he'd heard a noise, jumped out of bed and hadn't stop on his way here except to pick up a few Batarangs, a Bruce Wayne that should have been amusingly flustered, but definitely a Brucey as opposed to a Batsy.

The Joker found that he didn't like that even a little bit.

He couldn't remember the specifics of the conversation he'd had in the cell before blacking out and waking up in the bedroom, no more than he could remember the specifics of the blackout time. All he remembered from the latter was being an empty, quiet place, the sort of environment that would normally drive him batshit. Strange that it had felt almost comforting at the time. And all he could remember from the former was a conversation that seemed to center around humanity, one that had been painful, somehow.

And that Bruce Wayne had been the one to start it.

He wasn't insane, despite what everyone, even his beloved Bats, had deluded themselves into believing. He was…well, quirky wasn't quite the word for it, but it was the best he could come up. Certainly, he wasn't out of it enough to convince himself that the relationship between Bruce Wayne and the Batman was anything like the one between Jonny and Scarecrow. Bats wasn't a separate personality, or an imaginary friend or something like that. He wasn't a coping mechanism. He was…a concentration, of sorts.

It was as if someone had taken Bruce Wayne and removed everything that made him human, weak. A person boiled down to the bare essence of humanity, to something that more closely resembled the monsters it fought than the people it protected. A living paradox, breaking the rules to uphold the law, and actually managing to convince himself—thus far—that doing so made perfect sense. He was constantly walking the edge between hero and villain, and the Joker wouldn't have it any other way.

But that was the Batman. Bruce Wayne was an entirely different story.

At the moment, Bruce Wayne looking completely lost at the sight of his butler having a seemingly innocuous conversation with his criminal captives. His expression implied that he thought the man—Alfred, had he called him?—had gone mad, but the Joker wasn't sure why that surprised him. No 'normal' person would work for an outlaw vigilante who got his kicks by dressing up in skintight clothing and beating the shit out of evildoers. Anyone working for him would have to be a few drops short of a tablespoon at least. Besides, if the captivity of the Joker and Scarecrow was any indication, the man seemed to collect crazies as if they were pets.

That, or he was just amazed that the conversation hadn't taken a violent turn yet. _It's called civility, Brucey, _he thought, a wry smile twisting his mouth. _You might get much further in your night job if you tried it a bit more often._ "Just discussing the myriad of uses for lemon juice, Bats," he explained before the man could finish stammering out whatever sentence he'd been working on. "I must say, your butler's a _far _better conversationalist than you. You've simply got to loan him to me the next time I'm throwing a party."

Bruce Wayne stared at him, as if really seeing him for the first time since coming in. Must have been focused solely on his butler's safety. The Joker felt a twinge of jealousy, but got the feeling that killing this man would put him on very bad terms with the Bat, terms so bad even _he _wouldn't enjoy them. "Did you just dye your hair?"

"We were also discussing the myriad of uses for food coloring. I'd have asked you for dye, but I doubt you'd, uh, appreciate being woken at this time of night—morning—to be asked to run off to Walgreens."

He looked as if he wanted to say something biting, but had no idea how to respond, and resorted to focusing on Crane. "Are you eating straight cake mix?"

"It's not that odd," Crane said, looking as if he'd have crossed his arms had he not been holding things. "Yell at me about it when I'm eating dirt, or live insects or something. Honestly, of all the things you could single me out for, this has got to be the—"

"Enough. We're going back to the bedroom."

"We?" the Joker asked, sidling as close to Bruce Wayne as he could without getting a Batarang in the face for his efforts. "You're spending the night? Like I said, we're gonna have to find a place to put Jonny—"

"Enough."

The Joker noted that repeating himself was a Bruce Wayne trait that carried over to the Bat.

"You must admit, sir, you walked into that one."

He clenched his teeth, exhaled slowly. "The two of you are going back to the room, now. And you can't take the spoon," he added, with a sudden look to Jonny as if the scarecrow had been about to ask.

Jonny, still in his I-don't-talk-to-or-in-front-of strangers manner he'd had so often around the Joker's henchclowns, only nodded, looking taken aback.

"You don't have a lot of fun, do you Batsy?" the Joker asked, raising his hand to brush his love's hair out of his eyes, only to have Bruce Wayne step back and give him an entirely Battish glare that would have melted steel. So he could still be the Bat without the suit and mask. The Joker felt slightly less disgusted upon realizing that.

"Go. Now, unless you want to end up back in the cells."

Something inside the Joker clenched at that threat, and he allowed himself to be led back, though not without dragging his feet as much as he possibly could. He thought back to the last conversation he had with Bruce Wayne, what he could recall of it, anyway, and realized where he had made a mistake. He'd been wrong in implying that there wasn't a person beyond Batman.

Not to say that he had been wrong about the monster underneath, or the fact that Bats was the important one, but he'd been wrong to disregard Bruce completely. He had no memories of his past, and as a result had forgotten that, more than likely, there had been a person underneath beforehand. The monster was always there, the scars were a testament to that, but maybe there had been his own version of a Bruce, at some point. One that he was able to ignore because, whoever he'd been, he was now dead. And he'd applied that same logic to the Batman, believing it was possible to ignore Bruce.

But it wasn't, nor should it be. Bruce was the humanity the Bat so desperately held onto, the one thing reminding him of what he'd set out to accomplish in the first place. And as Bats placed such high importance on that humanity, disregarding Bruce had been a huge error.

Much as he hated him, the Joker had to interact with the other side of his Bat again, the side he usually kept hidden under all that wonderful Kevlar. He needed to understand Bruce, figure out exactly what made him tick, and exactly what could be used to break him. The answer to breaking the Bat, and getting him all to himself, wasn't to ignore Bruce, as he'd originally thought. The problem wasn't going to go away on its own.

The answer was to understand Bruce, and use that understanding to kill him.


	41. Pillow Fight

AN: And now that we're at chapter forty-one and counting, this is officially my longest story so far. I feel all accomplished and stuff.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

From the sound of things, Batsy was taking every piece of furniture in the mansion and blocking the door with them. Not that it would make any difference, but it was amusing to hear him try. It hadn't been the man's finest move; taking them back to the bedroom. Not that the Joker was going to complain, but at least the cells had offered some modicum of safety, what with the access codes and the chains. Their current situation had all the security of an open box of matches sitting on a pile of gasoline-soaked rags.

Maybe this was an attempt to appeal to their better nature; nicer accommodations in exchange for not trying to escape at any given opportunity. If that was the case, it was plain idiotic on Batman's part. The Joker didn't _have _a better nature, and besides, they'd yet to try and leave in any of their trips outside the room or the cells. He supposed the room could be bugged, but if that was the case, they should have been found long before they ever got to the kitchen.

Perhaps this was Batman's subconscious way of saying that he did want the Joker's company, after all. Yes. Yes, that was definitely it.

He lay down on the bed, stared at the ceiling for a bit, then turned his attention to the scarecrow sitting beside him, oddly silent. For once. "Well, I'd say _that_ was an informative little excursion, wouldn't you?"

If Jonny hadn't been so pretty, or so girly, and if he'd been standing there with toxin or some other weapon in hand, and if the Joker hadn't been immune to said toxin, he imagined the look on his friend's face would be quite intimidating. Probably. Just because he couldn't imagine Jonny as more of a threat than a tuna salad sandwich—that hadn't gone bad yet—that didn't negate the fact that at some point, he'd been considered a legitimate threat. Somehow. He'd likely been at least a little scary once upon a time.

Now, however, Joker found his look of quiet rage to be a bit lacking. "What's your problem, scaredy cat?"

"Besides the fact that you're an idiot, I'm imprisoned by the only person in this world I hate more than you, and I can't shut up? Oh, nothing." He had a talent for sounding so calm and polite when he insulted people. The Joker had to give him that.

"Ya know, for somebody who can't shut up, you did a pretty good job of, uh, giving me the cold shoulder there." Come to think of it, he'd been a lot less Talky Tina as of late. Until something startled him, anyway.

"I think I'm finally adjusting, thank God." His hands clenched the blanket, and the Joker noticed that he still bit his nails. "That is, I can keep quiet for longer periods and control what I say when I do start rambling a bit better. Still going to kill Leland for prescribing it, though."

As if. Not that killing a psychiatrist would be a difficult task, but Jonny's villainous endeavors worked about as well as Wile E. Coyote's attempts to catch the Road Runner. Only without the amusing cartoon physics. "Good luck with that."

"Oh, shut up."

"Lemme guess, fear still sets it off, right?" He thought back to Jonny's most recent outbursts. "That's why you start rapid firing like a machine gun whenever Bats talks at you?"

Another glare. For a man with so many weaknesses, he sure took unreasonable offense to having them pointed out. "Anyone in his right mind would be afraid of the Batman. Just because you're a masochistic attention whore who enjoys making him lose his temper, that doesn't mean we all are."

The Joker decided to take 'masochistic attention whore' as a compliment and as such, not snap Jonny's neck. "Why don'tcha just let Scarecrow take over, if you're so pissy about losing face in front of Bats?"

"You know, I'd never even thought of that?" Jonny asked, in a voice so acidic it could eat through steel. "Thank you, Joker, for your marvelous insight; I don't know how I ever managed without you. Inability to stop talking combined with Scarecrow and Batman, I can't conceive of a better combination. Granted, I'd guess that you don't know much math beyond explosive material plus spark equals boom, but why don't you give your suggestion a few minutes of hard thought and see if you can't come up with the little flaw in it?"

God, he was bitchier than a sitcom housewife. "Nice, kitten. I can't see why you're not Mr. Popularity, what with all your social grace and tact."

"Not all of us have an overwhelming need to be the center of attention at every second."

"Hey, I've never denied that." The Joker sat up, smirked. "And last I checked, so do you, with all your 'I'm so brilliant, I'm smarter than everyone else in this city, I need to be constantly validated because my mother never really loved me' crap you're always dragging out when—"

"Shut the fuck up." If looks could kill, the one Jonny was giving him would be bad enough to bypass good pain completely and go straight into unbearable agony.

The Joker found himself taken aback, a rare occurrence, to say the least. "Did…did you just curse at me?"

"Yes. What's your point?"

For a moment, the Joker only stared. And then burst into a giggling fit.

"What?" He could barely make out Jonny's voice over his own laughter. "Why is that funny, you idiot? What are you, stuck in the mindset of a third grader?"

"Hardly." He raised a hand to wipe tears from his face. "It's just _you. _You _never _say 'fuck,' Jonny. I'm willing to bet I could shoot you, and you still wouldn't say it, even as you bled out."

"I've sworn at you before."

"Yeah, but not the 'eff'' word. I think the only time you've ever said that was when you were hung over. You didn't even say it when I went to your apartment to kill you with a flamethrower, for Christ's sake."

Jonny looked as if he wanted to hit him. The Joker hoped he did; that would be ridiculously entertaining, judging from their previous fights. "Excuse me for a having a vocabulary sufficient enough that I don't need to curse every other word."

"Did ya know," the Joker began, running his tongue over his lips. "That is, are you aware that when you're really pissed, your Georgian accent comes back just the _slightest_ bit—"

There was a sudden, stinging impact against his face and warmth from blood running out of his nose. Jonny pulled his fist back, white paint smeared over his knuckles, and stared at his hand as though he couldn't believe what he'd just done. The Joker brought a hand up, wiped the blood away. It was a good pain, so he wasn't too bothered. What stunned him was the idea that Jonny could hit hard enough to cause bleeding at all. "You punched me."

"Farm boy, remember? I'm not completely defenseless."

The Joker tried to work out whether he was angry about being hit, or if it was too amusing to get worked up over. "See, ya did it again. It's re-mem-ber, Jonny, not, uh, reh-mem-bah. I guess it's a good thing you've got a little skill at keeping your emotions controlled, 'cause if you didn't, you'd sound like an idiot a hundred percent of the—"

This time he was slapped, which was a move girly enough to be typical Jonny, thus negating the humor. Annoyed, the Joker grabbed one of the pillows and slammed his friend across the face with it, hard enough to send him backwards onto the floor.

Jonny pulled himself to a sitting position, slightly dazed from the sudden impact but nonetheless looking murderous. If the Joker had any sense of self preservation—and if his friend had any decent fighting ability—he might have been worried. "Word of advice, kitten? If you're going to start a fight, the edge of a bed isn't the best place to do it."

"Go to hell."

"Aren'tcha an atheist?" he asked, extended a hand to help him up.

Jonny slapped it away, stood on his own. "That's beside the point."

"There's a _point _to all this? And here I thought you were just on the rag and taking it out on me, for some reason."

"For some reason," Jonny repeated, flatly. "For some reason. Tell me, Joker, are you deliberately obtuse or are you simply too stupid to link your actions to the effects they cause?"

He giggled at that. There were a lot of things the Joker was, but stupid was not and never would be one of them. "Ever heard of misdirection, scaredy cat? Given that ya used to be a shrink and all, I'm guessing you do. Which means you've got no grasp of irony at all, because you're a textbook example and you don't even realize it."

"Really." Jonny's tone held all the warmth of liquid nitrogen. "And how exactly do you figure that?"

"You're obviously taking out your anger regarding being locked up on me, despite the fact that Batsy's the one holding us here. Same with your embarrassment over losing face roughing eight hundred times since we've been taken captive, and your anger over the doctors fucking with your meds. Which, in my honest opinion, they do 'cause it's far easier for them than sorting out all of your many, many problems. Did the shrinks always suck that badly, or is it just since you stopped being administrator?"

He ignored the question. The Joker had noted that he tended to do that when things weren't going his way. "Let me be perfectly sure that I understand you. All of my anger at you is caused by my misdirecting other sources of frustration in my life, and not any kind of justifiable resentment brought about by the hell you like to put me through on a regular basis. For example, forcing me to come here instead of letting the Batman drop me off at Arkham, or breaking all my ribs. Is that right?"

"Yep."

"I hate you."

He smirked again. "And yet, funnily enough? That didn't stop you from sucking my cock."

For a moment, Jonny just stood there, all pale and twitching from rage. Then he pounced.

Given that Jonathan Crane weighed about the same as a life-size rag doll, he could hit and kick surprisingly hard when the mood struck him. And the mood had definitely struck. The fact that the Joker couldn't stop laughing probably didn't help, but in his defense, Jonny was hilarious when he was enraged. There was just something about seeing such a reserved, weak person going all out that was entertaining to no end.

Well, 'no end' was a bit of an exaggeration. The first twenty minutes or so were hilarious—the part where Jonny grabbed the pillow the Joker had been using as a shield and started beating him with it especially—but after that, when Jonny had tired himself too much to do anything more than repeatedly rake what was left of his nails over the Joker's face was decidedly less amusing. He was reopening the scabs there, and as it turned out, having half-healed skin ripped off was not a good hurt. "Jonny. You need to stop."

His friend continued trying to gouge his skin off, with no response except for the constant muttering of obscenities, some in English and some not, that he'd been carrying on since pouncing. The Joker wasn't sure whether or not Jonny could hear him at this point, he was so worked up. "Jonathan. Quit it or I will make you quit."

"Fuck you."

"I warned you." He stood, picking Jonny up with him. That wasn't particularly difficult, given that Jonny had essentially been sitting in his lap to begin with, but keeping hold of him was. He seemed to have regained some of his energy and was back to kicking and swinging punches, as well as general thrashing in his attempts to free himself. He was about as easy to hold onto as a soaped pig, and the Joker wasn't quite sure how he managed to walk into the bathroom without dropping him, but he did. At least, until they got to the bathtub and he dropped Jonny on purpose, immediately crouching down to hold him in.

"Let go!"

"_Calm down_," he ordered, grabbing Jonny's shoulders to keep him pinned. "Look, either you can relax and I can let you up when I'm sure you won't try to tear my face off again, or you can continue to pitch a fit, at which point I'll turn the water on and hold you under 'til you're unconscious. Got it?"

Jonny looked closer to vomiting than understanding, but he nodded. God bless hydrophobia. "Let me up."

"Are you going to be calm?"

He nodded so vigorously that for a moment, his face was entirely obscured by his hair.

"Are you _sure_?"

"Let me _up_." His hands closed around the Joker's wrists, harder than any of his punches had been. Though for once he was seeking security, and not trying to inflict damage. "I'll stop, just _let me up_."

The Joker considered making him apologize before deciding his heart would go out if he sat there any longer. "Fine." He picked Jonny up again, carried him back into the bedroom. It took about a fifth of the time it had taken him to cross the space before, without all the thrashing. "See how much easier things go when you're cooperative?" he asked, setting him down on the bed.

It was funny how such blue eyes could burn so fiercely. "I am going to create a fear toxin that will affect you and shove the entire flask of it down your throat."

So much for attempts at diplomacy. It seemed it would be up to him to keep things friendly. "Good luck with that." He brushed Jonny's hair out of his eyes, sat beside him. "Feel free to call me when you've got that all invented."

"I'm serious."

"As am I. It's always good to have goals. Look, Jonny," he added, before his friend could interrupt. "There's no point in fighting. We're in the same boat here, aren't we?"

"Yes. Because you dragged me into this boat against my will."

Why did he have to keep bringing that point up? Couldn't he just be happy that they got to spend time together in a prison that _didn't _run volts of electricity through their heads for the hell of it? Not that he'd actually even been electroshocked, but some of the others had. He couldn't recall if Jonny was one of the lightning bugs or not. "That's beside the point, kitten. The point is, we're here now and since I'm the only ally in this place that you've got, we should at least, uh, try to get along."

"I think I'd rather be without an ally." He crossed his arms in a way that was reminiscent of an angry six-year-old. The Joker resisted the urge to tell him how cute he was when he was angry, but just barely.

"You don't mean that."

"Yes, I do. You're the worst friend ever."

"Be that as it may, I'm the only friend here you've got. Aside from the voice in your head, anyway." He took Jonny's hand in his and ignored the way he tried to pull away, tightening his grip slightly. He wondered how much sensation Jonny had left in this hand, after shooting a nail gun through it. He'd have to test that someday, when he wasn't trying to get back on good terms with him. "Now, you want out and I've got an escape plan. It involves you, but I could probably make one that doesn't and get out on my own. I'm betting you don't want that."

Jonny stopped trying to free himself and nodded.

"See? So it's better for both of us to get along. I won't have to change my plans and you won't get left behind."

"And how do I know that my involvement in your plan isn't just to be left behind as a decoy?"

"You don't, silly." He ruffled Jonny's hair with the free hand. "That's where trust comes in."

"Trust?"

"Yes. It's, you know, a friendship thing, when two people believe in ea—"

"I know what trust is." He knocked the Joker's hand away, glared. "What on Earth makes you think I'd trust you, after everything we've been through?"

For such a smart guy, he was pretty clueless. "What choice do you have?"

He sighed, looked away. "Your hands are still green."

Ah. So they were. In all the Bat-excitement, he'd forgotten about the lemon juice. He smiled, swatted Jonny gently upside the head with a pillow. "Thanks. So, do you trust me or not?"

"I trust you to act in your own best interests."

He shrugged, and let go, standing. "Good enough for me. You need to get some sleep before you make your blood pressure any worse."

"Where are you going?"

"To get some lemon juice." He began fiddling with the door again. "Sleep tight. Don't let the field mice bite."

Jonny's brows furrowed. "The what?"

"Field mice. Because they like to burrow into scarecrows, ya know, when it's cold?"

Jonny threw a pillow at his head, which he dodged with ease. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're brainless. But let's not insult each other."

"I really do hate you."

"Love you too, kitten." Having finished with the lock, he switched off the lights. From here on out, it would just be pushing the door open, and he didn't need to see to do that. "Good night."

* * *

AN: Talky Tina is a doll from an episode of _The Twilight Zone._ Tugging her pull-string may result in happy little phrases like "I think I might hate you," "I'm going to kill you," and "You better be nice to me."

The line about a soaped pig refers to pig running, a game played at least since Elizabethan times and probably before that. A pig with a small tail is covered in soap or grease and sent running around, and the contestants try to grab hold of the pig's tail without letting go.

Arkham seems the type of hospital to use electroshock pretty liberally, but I can't see the Joker getting shocked, or at least not often, given that these days it's mostly used for depression.


	42. Piano and Poetry

AN: I have this idea that the Joker doesn't know how to ride bicycles. I'm not sure where that comes from, and he probably has in one comic or another, but he strikes me as not knowing how. I have several weird fan theories that aren't supported anywhere in the canon. Another's my idea that the Joker is sterile.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Music.

Just when Bruce thought the Joker had thrown every curveball he possibly could. Well, not _every _curveball. The man had more tricks than a hustler, and even considering that the clown may have run out of stunts was asking for something horrible to happen, as if in retribution for the assumer's stupidity. No, Bruce had never allowed himself the luxury of thinking that the Joker had run out of ways to make his life difficult, or even threatened.

He _had _allowed himself, upon seeing that the Joker and Crane's only action after getting out of the bedroom had been to play hairdresser in the kitchen, to think that perhaps the Joker was running out of truly outrageous stunts to try. But when he woke up at a bit past five in the morning to hear music playing from somewhere in the mansion, he had to conclude that he was wrong. He also had to ask himself why the sound hadn't woken him sooner; the music wasn't remotely quiet, and it seemed he'd been hearing it in his sleep for a bit before regaining full consciousness.

It was a routine that he'd grudgingly become accustomed to over the past two days; search the room for intruders, jump out of the bed—the last thing he needed was to have his Achilles tendon slashed by a villain hiding underneath—grab a means of defense, and head for the source of the sound. By the time he'd done that, the music had all but vanished, and for a moment, he wondered if he hadn't imagined it. There were sleep disorders that resulted in hallucinations, though the only one he could recall from the top of his head was sleep paralysis, and he certainly wasn't paralyzed.

There was always the possibility that the stress of the situation had become too much and he'd finally snapped, but he refused to entertain the notion.

Anyway, the moment the idea occurred him, the music increased in volume again, fast and discordant. _The piano, _he realized, as he stepped out of his bedroom and into the hall. Someone was playing the piano, and as Alfred didn't play and he doubted Crane would sit pounding away at the keys at five in the morning when he could be escaping, that left the Joker. What was he trying to do, figure out the combination of notes to that led to the cave? Bruce had no idea how the Joker would have surmised that the piano opened the elevator—unless he'd been faking his breakdown, or Crane had told him, but Crane had seemed too worried to take much notice of the room when he'd brought them up—but the man was disturbingly intelligent, foolish as he acted. And whatever he was playing sounded just chaotic enough to be random hammering on the piano, though there was an underlying rhythm to it all. It was familiar, now that he thought of it, but he couldn't quite place it.

He made his way toward the music, as quietly as he could. It fell and grew in volume a few more times, tempo altering along with sound, and it wasn't until Bruce was standing in the doorway, watching the Joker's hands fly over the keys, that he recognized it. _Danse Macabre. _A song meant to represent Death raising the dead on Halloween to dance until the dawn. He couldn't recall where he'd heard it, but he had, though with a full symphony, not just a piano.

It occurred to him that he ought to be wondering just where the Joker had learned to play the piano—or how he'd managed to sit still long enough to learn—but for the moment, he found himself transfixed by the _sight _of the Joker playing. He looked...unlike himself, sitting there, eyes closed, seemingly unaware that he was being observed. The manic energy was still there, but put to use for once, the expression still contorted , but with determination, not a twisted smile. It was the most human he'd ever looked with the paint still on. It was disturbing, yet intriguing at the same time.

_He plays the piano. _He wasn't sure why he couldn't get his mind past that observation, but he was stuck dwelling on it. Playing the piano seemed so _normal. _So…something that a human would do. And despite the few mistakes the man was making—at least, they sounded like mistakes from what Bruce could remember of the music—he was clearly skilled at it. It was never something Bruce had thought about. No one ever saw the human side of the monster like this. No one ever knew, apart from scholars and those who'd studied the subject, that Hitler had used throat lozenges after his speeches, for hoarseness from the shouting. Bruce assumed it was because people didn't _want _to see the monsters in their lives as people, didn't want to be reminded of the connection.

He certainly didn't enjoy seeing these human sides to the Joker. It didn't help his understanding of the clown in the least, despite efforts to the contrary. The glimpses into what remained of the person beneath the paint only served as a reminder that, since he was human, there could be other humans to turn out like him. Not the sort of thing that kept Bruce inspired.

He stepped into the room, cautiously. For all he knew, the Joker was perfectly aware of the world around him, using the music as a distraction until he felt like striking out. When one step in didn't provoke a reaction, he hazarded another.

The floorboards creaked underneath him.

The music stopped, with a loud, inharmonious clang as the Joker's fingers seemed to clench down on the keys they ended at. He glanced back over his shoulder, focusing on Bruce. Then he glanced back down to the keyboard, fingers slowly picking out a cacophony of sound that barely qualified as music. It was like listening to someone try to play Chopsticks without having any idea of tone or which keys to use. "Hello, Bats."

"You play the piano." It was an amazingly idiotic statement, but it was the only thing he could think of to say after being stunned twice in a row, first by the Joker's skill and then by the horrible 'music' he was producing now.

The Joker stopped again, turned around and smirked. "You call that playing? Must be even more tone deaf than I am."

"Before you starting randomly hitting keys." He got the feeling this was going to be another of those conversations that only ended in a headache. He wasn't sure why he kept letting himself be drawn into them. Maybe he was masochistic, subconsciously. Perhaps he should be seeing someone about this.

The Joker began sucking on his scars, as he so often did. Bruce wondered if he ever reopened them by accident, what with his inability to leave them alone. "Uh, that's what I've been doing the entire time, Batsy."

"And you just happened to reproduce _Danse Macabre._"

He shrugged, running his tongue across his lips before finally letting it rest in his mouth. "There's only so many combinations of chord progressions and tempos and things in the world, darling. Same goes with words and letters. Get enough monkeys slamming on enough typewriters for long enough? Eventually, you'll get _King Lear._ And then, like, an almost perfect replica of the play, but with, uh, five or six spelling errors."

Bruce was reminded of the clown's explanation for how he'd gotten out of the chains. Yes, this was definitely leading to a headache. "I suppose that would explain the mistakes you made."

He scowled. "Alterations, Bats, not mistakes. _L'artiste achève seulement par le souvenir_." Before Bruce could ask what that meant, the Joker had turned again, picking at the keys. "If I played, anyway. Which I don't."

"You're actually admitting that you can't do something?"

"There are lots of things I can't do. Like ride bicycles. But enough about me, how are you, _mon amour_?"

_Mon amour _was one of the few French phrases that Bruce did understand, and it took a great deal of restraint not to grab the Joker by the hair and start playing the piano with the clown's head. "Wondering why you're playing my piano in the middle of the night."

"Morning," he corrected, taking his hands off the keys. "Don't like talking about yourself, huh?"

He didn't answer. Ignoring the Joker was a useful way to get him to keep talking, as the man seemed unable to function without some sort of noise, whether it was from himself or others. Of course, there was always the very high chance that whatever he said would be completely unrelated to the topic at hand, and likely only meant to provoke rage.

For once, however, he was in luck. "I'm in here because blowing bubbles got boring."

Too bad honesty was every bit as maddening as irreverence. "What?"

"I went into your kitchen to get the food coloring off my skin," he explained, holding up his hands. "Once that was done, I wasn't tired, so yeah. Bubbles."

"And you made bubble solution how, exactly?"

"Dish soap and a straw. What, you were one of those kids with the fancy 'bubble wands' and crap?"

Bruce imagined the soap stains on Alfred's spotless linoleum tile and winced inwardly. "You're going back to the room. Now."

He pouted. "That's no fun."

"Good."

The Joker stood with all the breakneck speed of a quadriplegic sloth. "Ya know, Batsy, if you don't want me to break out every other minute, maybe you should get a lock that's worth a damn."

_If there _were _any Jokerproof locks in the world, I'd already have them. By the dozen. _It just figured that the Joker would completely ignore his attempts to treat the criminals like human beings. "Why don't you leave, if breaking out is that easy for you?"

"Well, the short answer's that I like spending time with you." The Joker smiled, a smile that might have looked innocent without the predatory look in his eyes. "The long answer is _rappelez-vous l'objet que nous vîmes, mon âme, ce beau matin d'été si doux: Au détour d'un sentier une charogne infâme sur un lit semé de cailloux._"

"I don't even want to know." He grabbed the Joker's arm, dragged him forward.

"Your girlfriend," the Joker said, as if that explained everything.

It was amazing that no matter how many times he dug at that scar, it still reopened. Not that he was going to let it show. The Joker had defiled Rachel's memory enough as it was. He wasn't about to encourage him to do more. "You might want to come up with something else to harass me about. It loses its edge the fiftieth time."

The Joker shook his head, leaned in so he was brushing against Bruce's side as they moved. "You don't get it, Batsy. _Vous serez semblable à cette ordure, á cette horrible infection, etoile de mes yeux, soleil de ma nature, vous, mon ange et ma passion!_" He paused, as if to let that sink in. "Half of you, anyway. I've got faith in the Bat's longevity."

Bruce wondered if he should point out he didn't speak French, before deciding he'd rather not know what was going on in the clown's head. They'd reached the door to the spare bedroom again. He had no idea how the Joker had managed the strength to push away the mahogany armoire which had to weigh at least twice as much as him, not to mention the desk and bookshelf alongside it. He opened the door, and shoved the Joker through first, in case Crane had set up some sort of ambush.

He hadn't, and the Joker merely flipped the lights on as Crane sat up, brushing hair from his eyes. That would have been the ideal time to leave, but the Joker's last words were still lingering in his thoughts. The Batman's longevity…was that a threat to Bruce Wayne? "And what do you think to gain by destroying what you desire?"

"The part I _don't _desire," the Joker corrected, shrugging off his coat as he sat. "And anyway, destroying something really marks it as, uh, one's own. _Alors, ô ma beauté! dites à la vermine qui vous mangera de baisers, que j'ai gardé la forme et l'essence divine de mes amours décomposés!_"

He was almost as bad as the Riddler. "Why do you know French?"

"I grew up in Quebec."

"_Menteur._"

They both turned to face Crane, the Joker speaking before Bruce could ask for clarification. "Didya just call me a liar, kitten?"

"Yes. Because Canadian French is different from European French, and you're speaking the latter."

The Joker scowled, and Bruce waited long enough to be sure he wouldn't try to kill Crane before barricading the door again, and heading back to bed.

* * *

"Charles Baudelaire," Jonny said, once Batsy had gone. "I didn't know you read poetry, Joker."

"Only the type that appeals to my interests." He smirked, pulled the blankets to his side. Jonny sat up, irritated. Good. That's what he deserved for questioning the Joker in front of Bats. "Plus, it's entertaining to watch him get confused, wouldn't you say?"

"Provoking the Batman is hardly my idea of entertainment."

"And that's why you fail as a villain, Jonny."

He tried pulling the sheets back to his side, struggling for a good minute with absolutely no progress. "Tell that to the people I've driven irreversibly mad."

"Still can't hold a candle to me, honey." He gave the sheets a tug of his own, hard enough to rip them out of Jonny's hands. "Don't beat yourself up about, though. Nobody can."

Jonny sighed and stood up. "So modest, aren't you?"

"Modesty never gets anybody anywhere. Ya gotta take charge to get places. What are you doing?"

"Taking a shower." He walked to the bathroom door, flipped on the lights. "I see no point in trying to sleep when you're trying to make me uncomfortable."

"That's what you get for questioning my authority." It really made no sense that Jonny wasn't afraid of showers. Then again, putting a potato sack over his head and expecting to be scary made no sense either, so it wasn't as if he didn't have a precedent for this sort of thing.

"It was a blatantly obvious lie. Not my fault for pointing it out." He unfastened the collar of his shirt, then stopped. "Joker?"

"Yes, scaredy cat?"

"You actually think you can kill him and still keep his essence?"

The Joker shook his head, smiling. "Do I look crazy to you?"

Jonny, demonstrating self-preservation for possibly the first time in his life, remained silent.

"I don't wanna destroy Bats. Just Bruce Wayne. And when he's gone? All that's left will be the Bat. The essence I love to begin with."

"He won't love you back. Not if you destroy his humanity."

He shrugged. "As they say in…_Love Story, _I think, love means never having to say you're sorry."

Jonny gave a short laugh, almost to himself. He shook his head, looked back up. "And whoever wrote that line must have been beating his wife." Then he closed the door, before the Joker could respond.

* * *

AN: There is something inordinately satisfying about giving Jonathan the last word, for once.

Almost all of the French quotes in this chapter come from Charles Baudelaire's poem _Une Charogne_ (The Corpse), except for _mon amour _(my love), and _menteur_ (liar). The poem tells the story of a couple happening across a corpse and the man's reflection that someday, his love will be rotting as well, though he will keep her essence and memory. The first quote the Joker uses from it translates to "the artist completes from memory alone." The second quote, which refers to Rachel's death, is "My love, do you recall the object which we saw, that fair, sweet, summer morn! At a turn in the path a foul carcass on a gravel-strewn bed." The third bit translates to "you will be like this corruption, like this horrible infection, star of my eyes, sunlight of my being, you, my angel and my passion!" and the fourth is "Then, O my beauty! say to the worms who will devour you with kisses, that I have kept the form and the divine essence Of my decomposed love!"

The poem, in French and English, is available online, as well is the song _Danse Macabre, _which can be found on Youtube.


	43. Sleeping Princess Syndrome

AN: Sorry about the delay on this chapter. Tuesday I was working on a project, and Wednesday my school was showing _Jesus Christ Superstar _complete with the same Jesus actor from the 70s movie, so yeah. I kind of had to see that.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

From what Jonathan Crane knew of quantum mechanics—and admittedly, that wasn't much beyond some light reading and an episode of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_, which may not have been all that accurate—reality was shaped by perception. If an object or person failed to be perceived, it ceased to exist, for all intents and purposes. 'I'm invisible when no one's looking at me' taken to the next level.

Which meant, in theory, that if he was able to ignore the Joker well enough, for long enough, eventually the clown would fade out of reality. Or at least quit shaking Jonathan's shoulder in an attempt to get his attention.

"Jonny. Jonny, I know you can hear me."

Visual perception of the Joker was taken care of, as his eyes were closed under the guise of sleep. For once, odor wasn't an issue—almost certainly due to Jonathan dragging him into the shower yesterday—nor was taste. Unfortunate, auditory and tactile perception could not be ignored, so the Joker did not cease to exist and as such make Jonathan's life that much easier.

"Kitten."

He shifted, the way a sleeping person might, before realizing that such motion was counterproductive to his efforts to fully ignore his companion. Then again, perhaps it wouldn't make a difference. Ignoring the Joker was an impossible, not to mention dangerous, task. Even if he could pretend not to feel the increasingly rough agitations to his shoulder, he couldn't block out the Joker's voice any more than he could Scarecrow's. Listening to the man, irritating as it was, often turned out to be vital, and he found he couldn't stop hearing the words now.

He'd always meant to take up meditation or self-hypnosis or something, to teach his mind to ignore the stresses of the outside world. But between work and toxin and all of life's other little distractions, he'd never gotten around to it. How he regretted that now.

"Princess. Up."

_Scarecrow? _If there was anything that could distract him, that would be it. In particularly boring therapy sessions as of late, he'd begun resorting to ignoring whatever idiot with a notepad and pen he'd been shoved in front of and started holding conversations with his other half instead. Not too often, as it had the side effect of making him seem catatonic and he didn't want any more meds shoved into his system than he already had, but when they did speak to each other, it always worked.

Unfortunately, he was met with nothing but his own thoughts. It would seem his alter ego was still asleep. He wondered, if only for a moment, how part of his mind could sleep while the other was very, regrettably, conscious. Then the Joker stopped shaking him, and he quit thinking, beyond wondering what misery this latest development would bring about. His question was answered a few seconds later, when he felt a shift on the mattress and the sudden weight of the Joker as the clown sat on top of him.

"So…" Jonathan had managed to keep his eyes closed, but going by the Joker's tone, the man was definitely smirking. "What's the sexual attraction to sleeping people called? Somnophilia?"

_If that's his idea of threat, he's really slipping. _In other circumstances, it might have been threatening, but considering that the Joker himself had once told Jonathan that raping an unconscious person was an act he considered beneath him, it fell rather flat. True, he'd been talking about coma patients at the time, but Jonathan figured the principle would carry over to an ordinary sleeping person.

"Yeah, somnophilia. Or, uh, sleeping princess syndrome."

He felt his eyes roll beneath the lids. _Is he never going to shut up about the princess thing? _He'd almost prefer kitten. Or angel. Or anything else. What had his life become, that he actually had preferred Joker nicknames? "You haven't got somnophilia," he said, not bothering to open his eyes.

"And you know that _how_, exactly?"

"Because." _Damn clown. _He'd already forced Jonathan to respond, couldn't he get up? The Joker was thin, but still taller and heavier than Jonathan, who was starting to have trouble breathing. "You like a challenge."

"Point."

"Are you planning on getting up anytime soon?"

The Joker leaned forward. Jonathan could tell from the change in weight on his abdomen and the feel of hair brushing against his cheek. "Do you know the original tale of Sleeping Beauty?"

He was being punished for something. Some cosmic evil he must have committed unknowingly, or in a past life, if such a thing existed. That was the only explanation for the current state of his life. Jonathan wondered if this was the Joker's way of paying him back for winning their last argument. Personally, he felt he'd been due for a victory, but it seemed the Clown Prince of Crime felt differently. "So, you're not getting up, then?"

"In a minute, yeah. Wanna come?"

"Come where?"

"I'm gonna talk to Bats again. And probably get food."

"Oh, because our last excursion to the kitchen went so very well." He had no interest in repeating that event, and even less interest in going to bait the Batman's temper. The faint pangs of hunger he was feeling were nowhere near worth the effort it would take. And he didn't want to end up back in a cell again. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Adventure time."

"That tells me so much."

"_C'mon_, princess." He sounded exactly like a petulant kindergartener. Jonathan was beginning to wonder if he hadn't preferred Lethargic Joker after all. "You never have any fun."

"I think that you and I have vastly different interpretations of fun." He considered the various 'fun' activities the Joker had tried to pull him into during their relationship and decided that their interpretations were totally different.

"Namely, yours sucks and mine doesn't."

"Why, because I don't enjoy having my ribs shattered by some playboy dressed up as a rodent?"

"Well, yeah." Jonathan felt a hand on his face, brushing his own hair back, though he could still feel the Joker's dangling against his cheek. The man had no concept of personal space whatsoever. "Uh…gonna open your eyes anytime soon?"

"And what difference does that make?" Opening his eyes to find the Joker a few centimeters from him like some sort of mad, painted cat was not his idea of a good start to the day. Not that a day spent in the Batman's captivity could ever be good, but there was no point in making things worse.

"It's a little...well, not unnerving, because I'm never unnerved—"

Jonathan scoffed, though he had the self-preservation to turn it into a cough almost at once. The Joker's hand moved from his forehead to his throat, applied pressure. Not nearly enough force to make him choke, but the implication that he could was readily apparent.

"As I was _saying_, it's weird."

"I'm sleeping," he managed, as the Joker's hand lifted.

"You're holding a conversation."

"So I talk in my sleep. Get off; I can't breathe."

"Obviously, ya can, or you wouldn't be talking. And anyway, you don't talk in your sleep." He leaned back a bit, winding Jonathan slightly. "You moan a lot, or cry, but you—"

"I do _not _cry." He attempted to sit up, only to have the Joker take hold of his shoulders and force him back down.

"Hate to break it to ya, angel, but when you're not thrashing around like an addict in withdrawal, you're usually crying or screaming your head off. You're lucky I'm a heavy sleeper, or I'd probably have gotten sick of it by now and, uh, cut out your vocal cords."

And here he'd thought the night terrors had stopped. Lovely. Not only was he humiliating himself unconsciously, the Joker was a witness, and the Batman surely had it on tape. He could have slapped himself—or his companion—had his arms not been pinned. "You're one to talk."

There was a pause.

"And just wha_t_ do you mean by that, Jonny?" There was a danger in the Joker's tone that he would have done well to acknowledge. He didn't.

"You said you've never been unnerved. Which, as I'm sure you're aware, is blatantly untrue. Unless you forgot the time you spent in a dissociative state—"

The hands were around his throat again, tight enough to make him breathe in strangled gasps. He didn't open his eyes. He wasn't going to give the Joker that satisfaction. "Tell me, princess, do ya have a death wish?"

"Hardly. I'm just sick of this." Jonathan paused. Well, he was on his way to hell anyway; he supposed there was no point in keeping the hand basket. "Sick of you."

The Joker pushed down, cutting off his air flow completely, if only for a moment. "Run that by me again?"

"You. I'm sick. Of. You." Somewhere in the back of his mind he felt Scarecrow stirring. Funny, how they always seemed to arrive to shut each other up right after the other had said the thing he shouldn't have said. Even his sense of timing was against him. "I'm sick of the Batman, sick of this situation, but most of all? I'm sick of you. This is _all _your fault. I'd rather be back at Arkham than with you. At least those people _think _they're helping. You…you're like an infection. All you want to do is find a host to rot from the inside out."

"And last I checked, you agreed to be that host."

"There's only so many times you dig at that wound before it stops bleeding." His arms found their way free from the Joker's legs, hands wrapping around the clown's wrists in an attempt to keep him from pushing as Jonathan spoke. "You manipulated me. And I let myself be manipulated. But that was then and this is now, and I don't _want _your support anymore. I don't _need _you."

To his surprise, the Joker didn't choke him again. "Ya know, Jonny, I _could _go through and point out all the little flaws in your logic, but that wouldn't be any fun. Wanna hear a story?"

"Are you even listening—"

"Once upon a time," said the Joker, as if he hadn't heard. "In a faraway kingdom, there lived a king and queen. The queen gave birth to a daughter, Talia, and the king called his astrologers to divine Talia's future."

"What does this have to do with any—"

One hand moved from his throat to cover his mouth. "Hush, I'm getting there. Now, the astrologers told the king that Talia's life would be endangered by a splinter of, uh, flax, you know, the plant used to spin thread?"

"Yes," Jonathan said, after the Joker removed his hand from his mouth.

"Good. Obviously, the king didn't want his daughter to die, so he ordered that all flax be banned from his house. And Talia grew to be a teenager without incident. But of course, if her life was perfect, there'd be no story, so one day she went out of the house and came across an old woman spinning flax on a spindle. Having never seen flax before, she was understandably curious and asked if she could try it. And the second she started to spin, she got a piece of flax under her fingernail and fell to the ground, dead."

"Dead?" Jonathan was fairly sure he'd never heard a Sleeping Beauty tale in which the princess actually died.

"Apparently, anyway. Now, the king couldn't bring himself to bury his daughter, so instead he had her body dressed up and sent to one of his estates."

"Logically."

The hand was over his mouth again. "Stop interrupting, Jonny. Now, it just so happens that one day, another king was hunting in the woods by the estate where Talia lay, and his falcon led him there. The king went inside, and found her laying there on the bed, not at all, uh, decomposed. He tried to wake her up, and upon finding her unable to wake, he raped her and went on his merry way.

"Now, it just so happens that nine months after the fact, Talia gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl, without ever waking up. And the boy, in his search for food, began sucking on Talia's finger and dislodged the splinter of flax there, waking her up. She named the twins Sun and Moon and they lived in the estate alone."

"Why didn't they go back to her father?"

"Stop dragging logic into things, you'll ruin it. Now, the rapist king decided to visit the house again and was shocked to find Talia awake and mothering his children. He was already married, so he couldn't take them back with him. He left them in the woods, and that would have been the end of things, except that his wife, the queen, heard him speaking their names and location in his sleep, and decided to punish him for his infidelity. So she had his, uh, secretary go to the estate, and tell Talia that the king had summoned her and her children to the court."

"She didn't find that suspicious?"

"She was a teenage girl. She thought Sun and Moon were good names, for heavens' sake. When they arrived at the castle, the queen had Talia imprisoned and brought the twins to the castle's cook, telling him to kill Sun and Moon and feed them to her husband. Unbeknownst to her, the cook hid the twins and fed the king lamb instead. The queen then went to kill Talia.

"She had a bonfire built in the courtyard and brought Talia out to be thrown in. Talia asked if she could take off the clothes she was wearing first, because they were beautiful, and she didn't want them burned. The queen agreed, and Talia started to strip, screaming with each piece of clothing she took off, supposedly 'cause she couldn't bear to be without them. Really, she—"

"Was trying to attract the king's attention?"

"Yeah, and shush. So he came out and demanded to know what was going on. The queen told him she knew of what he'd done and that she'd fed him his own children. The king had the queen and his secretary burned, and would have killed the cook as well, until he revealed that the twins were still alive. So the cook was made a, uh, chamberlain, and Talia and the king married and lived happily ever after."

Jonathan felt lips press against his own, and opened his eyes in surprise as the Joker straightened, slid off him and back onto the mattress. "What was that for?"

"Just to wake you up, relax. Now, why do you suppose I told ya that story?"

He sat up, putting as much distance between them as he could. Being kissed on the mouth was far too close to their former interactions for comfort. "To make a princess joke?"

"You're so _paranoid_." His hand shot out to take Jonathan's, holding tight despite the other's effort to pull away. "No, I told it to teach a lesson. A _moral_, if you will. Talia should hate the king, for what he did, shouldn't she? But she married him, and they lived 'happily ever after.' Know why?"

"Because an unwed mother would be shunned?"

"No, kitten." He smirked, brushed imaginary lint from his coat. "Because she _needed _the king. She was too naïve to take care of herself, so she _had _to rely on him, even after the, uh, awful things he did. He might be terrible, but she needed him to protect her from those who were even worse. Get it?"

Oh, did he ever. Lovely. The Joker was trying to say that Jonathan had no choice but to rely on him, go along with whatever cockamamie scheme popped into the clown's head, without complaint. Because as god awful as he'd treated Jonathan, he was better than the Batman. He wanted Jonathan to admit that he needed him.

Well, fuck that.

"Oddly enough, I've got a different interpretation," he said, leaning as far back against the headboard as he could with the Joker holding his hand.

"Oh? And what would that be, princess?"

"Talia's far more intelligent than you've given her credit for. She came up with the plan to get the king's attention, after all. He may have been the one to put a stop to things, but he wouldn't have known what was going on if not for her. She might have been manipulated, but she was clever enough to turn the tables on the queen. And the king, too."

The Joker smacked his lips. "And how do ya figure that one?"

"She got him to save her. And then marry her, because she had something he wanted. The twins. And as long as she had leverage, the king couldn't touch her."

"Really now. And what's your leverage, Jonny?"

"You tell me. I'm a part of your escape plan, aren't I? You need me if you want to get out." He continued before the Joker could respond. "And here's another of my interpretations. You're not the king here. You're the queen that wants the king's attention, and you thought you could get it by destroying the king's love. But all you did was drive him further away."

The smile faded a bit. "Excuse me?"

"And instead of setting you on fire, he kept you around so you could see just how much he despises you as a result. And you're just too stubborn to admit defeat, so you go on trying to be noticed and loved. Only all you're doing is burning yourself. Or giving yourself psychotic breaks. And you know what?" He ignored the way the Joker's hand was tightening, sending pain through his own. "I want no part of it anymore. I'm not letting you burn me to get him to notice you. Do it on your own."

The last time he'd seen the Joker's eyes look this way, he ended up needing surgery to pull one of his ribs out of his lung. He braced himself for another such attack, but instead, the Joker dropped his hand and stood. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm sure." He lay back down, massaging his hand. "Joker? I hope you find your happily ever after. I really do."

The Joker looked as if he wanted to stay something, but only stomped to the door instead, and began to pick the lock.

* * *

AN: The Sleeping Beauty fairy tale is based on the Italian story _Sun, Moon, and Talia_ that the Joker tells in this chapter.


	44. Decision

AN: I think I'm roughly the nine thousandth author to point this out, but going by the party scene in TDK, the Joker really seems to like those little cherry tomatoes.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Lacking as Batsy was in etiquette and hospitality, his kitchen was well stocked. The Joker hadn't paid much attention to the content of the cabinets he was rifling through during The Great Hair Dye Search of One-Something This Morning, but the place had enough to feed an army. The alphabetical order, along with separation by type of item, still amused the clown to no end, but he got the feeling the Bat's butler was probably behind that. Bats didn't seem the type to cook for himself.

The Joker still didn't know what to make of the butler. He was pretty sure that Bruce Wayne would not take well to any harm done for the man, so if he did decide to off him, he'd have to wait until he'd gotten rid of the billionaire playboy side of his love. Which might take longer than he thought. Sitting around in the mansion, trying to tear Bruce Wayne down a piece at a time, may not be the way to go. Certainly it was much slower than he would have liked, but of course, any way of offing Wayne would take its time. Painful as it was to admit, the man was very tightly linked to Bats, and extracting him would take Herculean effort.

Anyway, before he determined the method he'd use, he needed to understand precisely what he was dealing with. A one-on-one with Batsy ought to clear that right up, but he got the feeling that his soul mate might not take well to waking up with the Joker snuggling up against him. He'd rather not be thrown back into the cell, and enraging Bats wasn't likely to help with a rational conversation, so he opted to wait in the kitchen instead.

And inside the immaculate refrigerator—the Joker was a bit disappointed to see there were no Bat headlines stuck to the fridge with magnets—there was a carton of tomatoes, unopened. _Wonderful food, marvelous food, glorious food._ He tended to forget about things like eating if there wasn't something edible—or near edible—directly in front of him, and having that deliciousness sitting straight in his field of vision brought the hunger down like a sack of rubber chickens stuffed with anvils. He got the feeling this was close to the time when they'd usually be given breakfast. He hadn't bothered to check the time on the way in, and rather than glancing to the oven clock now, he just took the carton of tomatoes. Less work for Batsy, right? Maybe he'd be slightly less of a complete square now.

Joker was halfway through the tomatoes and idly flipping through the channels of the small television sitting by the sink when Batman arrived. He saw just enough of him out of the corner of his eye to ascertain that it was his Bat, and not Jonny or the British one.

"What are you doing?"

"You've got like, twelve hundred TV channels," he said, in an attempt to find something that wasn't a news station. "And from what I've seen, you've got about that many TVs. All that money, and ya didn't bother to get one in color?" And how terribly annoying that was. The world was black and white enough without the television making it more so. If throwing the TV against the wall wasn't likely to be considered Inappropriate Behavior and get him thrown back in the cell, he'd have done it by now. Multiple times.

"The bigger ones are in color. I don't use these to watch things, just to listen to the news. Why are you out here?"

What, the fact that he was eating wasn't answer enough? It wasn't as if he was remotely quiet about chewing; he really couldn't be, thanks to the scars. "Making sure I have the correct amount of, uh, vitamin A."

"You couldn't have waited?" He stepped into the kitchen, surveying the situation. Probably trying to deduce whether or not the Joker had any knives hidden on his person, or some paranoid, business-y thing like that. He needed a chill pill. Or a tranquilizer dart to the jugular.

"I don't have a clock."

"I don't trust you with one." He had that Batman-ish gleam to his eye, as he watched. If only he'd do the voice, it would almost make up for the lack of a mask. Bruce Wayne was good looking, there was no doubt about that, but he couldn't hold a candle to Batsy. No one could, save for the Joker himself. "And I don't believe that you came out here out of hunger. What do you want?"

He couldn't tell if Batman's look of disgust came from the Joker's presence, or the way he was chewing. Maybe it was the combination. Well, he could get over himself; the Joker was going to have his tomatoes, manners be damned. "_Well,_ it all starts when—"

The Batman, with all his usual graceful conduct, held up a hand to silence him. "The _point_, Joker. I've had far too little sleep to put up with any talk about how I'm the terror that flaps in the night and you're the fingernail scraping the blackboard of the soul or whatever it is you're always going on about."

He blinked. "The what now?"

"Just get to the point."

"I wanna talk. Is that such a crime, Bats?"

"It should be." Batsy stepped around him, pushing shut the refrigerator door he'd forgotten to fully close.

"Nice." He tried to pout before remembering his mouth was too full of tomato to do it effectively. "Maybe all I need is someone to talk to, Bats. Maybe that would fix everything, but if you're not willing to try—"

"Given that that's all your psychiatrists have tried to do, I doubt it would make any difference whatsoever."

Poor delusional Batsy, laboring under the faulty assumption that Arkham was worth a damn at treating so much as a paper cut. One would think that a man who'd dealt with the asylum's own administrator going batshit would realize that it wasn't nearly so cut and dry, but no. Denial was a powerful force, it seemed. "You could try treating your houseguest with a _little_ more courtesy."

"I don't want you here."

Nice. Real nice. "Well, _ex_cuse me. This hasn't been a cakewalk for me either, Batsy."

Bats looked as if he was considering whether or not turning the Joker paraplegic would be breaking his rule. Unfortunately, he seemed to decide that it was. Damn. That struggle would have been so fun. "You're the one who wanted to come here to begin with."

"I figured the Bathouse would be more than just a more, uh, expensive madhouse lacking the Ratcheds and the Mengeles." Really, this place was _miserable. _All orderly and not Batlair-ish. An environment that caused him to reveal weakness and lose time, and apparently had let the scarecrow grow a spine. That was just messed up.

"You figured wrong."

"Well, thank you, Mr…Lesson Teaching Guy. I'd have never picked up on that without your keen insight, that's for sure." He brought his fingers down to the carton, feeling only plastic. Lovely. And the one thing that was beginning to turn this day around was gone. "I don't see why you're so opposed to speaking, anyway. You act like you're afraid of a conversation."

"You're one to talk."

His eyes narrowed. "'Scuse me?"

"You." Bats crossed his arms, looking down at him with a mix of his usually hatred and something that looked liked disgust. But not the good kind of disgust, the kind that followed a particularly depraved crime, the kind that looked like the Caped Crusader was about to heave out whatever was in his stomach at the time. This was a different disgust, one that might have been pity if not barred by hate. "You act as if you're so unaffected, but the only way you can deal with the world around you is to block out the unpleasant parts."

Would he just _not _let that go? Honestly, if the last time he'd brought up blocking the past had made the Joker lose contact with the world outside his head for days, which was what he guessed had happened based on what little he remembered before everything got fuzzy, and what Jonathan had said while he was hugging Bats, didn't it just make good sense to _not _bring it up again? Then again, when had Batsy ever made good sense? "I'd rather block it out than dress up in fetish gear every night to work out my mommy and daddy issues."

"Right. I'm sure your defense mechanism is perfectly healthy."

"It's _not _a defense mechanism." It wasn't as if he couldn't remember _on purpose._ This conversation was starting to make his head hurt, and not an annoyed kind of headache either. More of the 'this discussion might well bring on the static' sort of headache, which would not be fun in the least. He wished he could find whatever part of his brain was responsible for the white noise and cut it out, without becoming a vegetable. Or bleeding to death.

"I'm sure." He had that stupid smug look the Joker had never seen on Batman, only Bruce Wayne. "And the paint isn't either?"

"Don'_t_ talk to me about the paint. Last I checked, you had a mask too."

"Last I checked, I wasn't afraid to take mine off."

"That's because ya still believe in your humanity. You think by clinging to it, embracing it, you can hold onto it longer. But you _can't_." He nearly spat the last word, shuffling back on the tile a bit so he could stand. Information, for whatever reason, didn't sound too convincing from someone you were towering over. "Does it relieve you, _Bruce_, to see the human face in the mirror while you're scrubbing off your eye shadow? Because hold onto that while ya can, it won't last forever."

"Really."

He was so _infuriatingly _unaffected. This wasn't how things were _supposed _to go. Batman was supposed to be the one who got flustered. Not that he _was _flustered. Just pissed. Batsy's unpredictability, for once, was not amusing. Just annoying. He wanted to hit him, throw something, do anything to make him respond. "Really. That humanity of yours? You're gonna start to take it for granted. Stop taking such a close look at the person looking back at'cha, 'cause you know you're keeping yourself in check, so he's not going anywhere, right? And then one day, you'll take a closer look, and realize there's a look in your eyes you've never seen before. Not with the mask off."

Ah, and _there _was that spark of misguided intrigue. Desire to hear where this was going, much as he wanted to shield himself from it. The Joker couldn't blame him; he spoke as if he had firsthand experience. Maybe he did. It wasn't as if he would know. "So you'll try and stop the flow, recover what you've found you lost. And for a while, it might work. But the leak is there, and you can only slow it. Try as you might, all that you're fighting to keep? It slips. Like sand through a sieve. One day, you're going to look and realize that everything you were fighting to keep is gone, gone forever. And wanna know the best part?" He leaned forward, whispered into his companion's ear. "You won't remember why it even mattered."

For a moment Batman stared at him, and he could tell the words had gotten through, despite efforts to block them out. Gone was the smug look, the face of Bruce Wayne that may be as much as mask as the cowl, replaced by guarded uncertainty, and fear. But only for a moment. Then it was gone. "You're wrong."

He snorted. "Is that the best you can come up?"

"You keep comparing yourself to me, because you think we're the same. But we're _not._"

"Denial's more than just a river in Egypt—"

Batman silenced him by grabbing the lapels of the trench coat, pulling him forward. "I'm not saying there aren't similarities. There are, much as I'd like to say otherwise. But we are not the same, and I will _not _become what _you _are. You lost your humanity because you never wanted it to begin with."

"You don't know the first thing about—"

He was spun around, slammed backwards against what felt like the refrigerator. It sent beautiful waves of pain up across his shoulders and down his spine which, coupled with the infuriated, Bat-like look on Bruce Wayne's face, nearly sent him over the edge. "_Quiet. _I'm going to talk, and you're going to listen. You may have forced me to bring you here, and give into your idiotic demands, and I may have to listen to you go off on your twisted theories about what you imagine to be between us, but I'll be damned if I'm not going to get my say as well, in my own goddamn house. _Shut up_."

The Joker willed himself to keep his mouth shut, though he couldn't stop the smirk spreading across his face. He was shoved back again in response, and it felt _heavenly._

"You became what you are because you couldn't cope with whatever your life was before you made yourself into this. You became the Joker to _kill _your human side. You let whatever madness was in your mind grow until it consumed you. Bruce Wayne _invented _the Batman, to stand for _Bruce's _ideas. Batman fights for humanity. The Joker tries to tear it apart. We are _not _the same, and I'd kill myself before I became what you are." He shoved the Joker one last time, either to enforce his point or reassure himself. "I will _always _fight for humanity."

"They say," said the Joker, who became aware that his feet were dangling an inch or so off the ground, "that the road to hell is paved with good intentions."

He was half dropped and half thrown to the side. "Get out."

The Joker stood, brushed off the knees of his pants. "I don't know what they say the intentions to, uh, domestic abuse are—"

"Now."

"Aren't we friendly." He tossed his hair out of his face and strode out, with all the dignity he could muster after the past few days. He could feel the Bat's eyes on him. Good. He wasn't about to show that he'd been affected by the conversation. Not that it hadn't been beneficial—he'd gotten back under Batsy's skin after all—but he'd displayed weakness over the makeup, again. He could beat himself for that, he really could.

It didn't matter now, though. He'd figured it out. Bruce Wayne could be dealt with. He'd proven that, given the intoxication in his eyes when the Joker had spoken. The Dark Knight, like the Clown Prince of Crime, may be more than just a man, but Bruce Wayne, as the body the Joker resided in once had been, was only human. Weak. Fragile. Mortal. It wouldn't be easy, but then, the Joker had always loved a challenge.

But not here.

Bats had convinced him of that, with that delightfully macho line about 'in my own goddamn house.' Bruce Wayne had home field advantage here. Normally, that wouldn't be a problem, but Bruce Wayne, while still disgustingly human, was hardly a normal man. This was the house he came back to, after having every reason to never return, so it must symbolize something. His parents. Their deaths. That he was fighting to make sure no one suffered as they did again. The Joker might be able to overcome that, but it would take years, and he was not nearly patient enough for that.

Escape, then. And he could fight the Batman on his own terms, make sure he was the one with the upper hand. Zoning out for days on end was counterproductive to displaying his authority and control, and if he picked the battlefield, it wouldn't happen. He stepped around the barricade he'd pushed away from the door again, knocked.

"Who's that?" Jonny's voice from the other side. Hearing it brought up anger he'd forgotten in his discussion with Bats. Stupid little scarecrow, daring to act as if he was allowed to be unaffected by the Joker's remarks, to act as if he had a choice in whether or not he went along with the clown's schemes. On the other hand, he had to give the man grudging respect for finally growing a pair. It took guts to stand up to him. Stupidity and suicidal tendencies as well, but guts nonetheless.

"Land shark."

There was a silence from the other side, which the Joker took to mean that Jonny didn't get the joke. He sighed—no one appreciated comedy these days—and opened the door. Jonny sat on the bed, looking a bit twitchier than he had before. He'd probably taken a pill since the Joker had left. Good. Maybe he'd be docile, for once.

"How are things outside?"

"Enlightening." One of Jonny's brows arched, but he didn't elaborate, opting instead to sit next to his friend, and put an arm around his shoulder. He felt the scarecrow's body jerk, as if fearing retaliation for his remarks from before. Good. He deserved that. But now wasn't the time to get Jonny on his bad side. "Wanna get out of here, Jonny?"

Jonny blinked quite a few times. "Excuse me?"

"Wanna get out of here?" the Joker repeatedly, slowly. He did have overly-medicated straw for brains; it only made sense that he'd be slow on the uptake. "Leave. Abscond. Depart. Go. Run away. Jump the fence. Vamoose. Disappear. Fly off in a jet pla—"

"Yes!" For all the determination of his answer, the cutest mix of relief and apprehension played on his face immediately afterward. "What's the catch?"

"No catch. We're getting out of here. But I need your help." He stroked Jonny's hair from his face, fingers tracing the tazer scar Rachel Dawes had given him so long ago. "Are you up for this, kitten?"

"For what?" he murmured. The Joker realized that they'd both begun whispering, himself without meaning to. Whether it was subconscious paranoia of being bugged or excitement, he wasn't sure. Whatever it was, it was best to go with it.

"Still got the pills?"

Jonny nodded, his hand disappearing into his pocket and reemerging with a prescription bottle.

"Good. I need 'em." He extended his hand, but Jonny paused for a moment, considering.

"What are you going to do, overdose?"

He tilted his head. "How would _that _be, uh, conducive to escape, Jonny?"

"It'd get you to a hospital. Easier to get away from."

"Close, but no cigar." He _was _counting on the poor security of one _particular_ hospital, though. Jonny'd been near the mark there.

"What are you going to do with these, then?" He'd tightened his grip on the bottle. So dependent on the drugs. Sad, really, the things prescriptions did to people.

He kept his hand out, as patiently as he could. The sooner he got hold of the meds, the sooner they'd be back at Arkham, and the sooner he'd be back on the streets, but a few minutes' persuasion couldn't make that much difference. "I'm gonna flush 'em."

* * *

AN: "The terror that flaps in the night" comes from the 90s Disney cartoon _Darkwing Duck, _in which the title character would always announce his presence as "I am the terror that flaps in the night" followed by another saying that would change, such as "I am the fingernail that scrapes the blackboard of your soul" or "I am the ten dollar service charge on all returned checks." No, I don't still watch it and have all three seasons on DVD, what are you talking about?

"Wonderful food, marvelous food, glorious food" comes from the song "Food Glorious Food" in _Oliver!_ "Sand through a sieve" is from "A Man Has Dreams" in _Mary Poppins._ "Land shark" comes from a _Saturday Night Live _sketch. "Ratched" refers to Nurse Ratched from _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest,_ and Mengele is the man who experimented on the concentration camp inmates in World War II.


	45. Promises

AN: For those who haven't read my previous stories, I have this idea that those who weren't given an antidote to the fear toxin from BB within a certain time frame got permanent brain damage as a result, and Jonathan is one of the damaged. The pain as a grounding method idea came from an article on self mutilation, which mentioned that many cutters don't actually enjoy pain, but they need it to distract themselves from emotional turmoil.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

"_What_?" Jonathan felt his grip go tighter around the bottle, almost hard enough to crush the plastic.

"I'm gonna flush the pills," the Joker said, with his hand still extended, waiting, as if this was a perfectly logical idea. In the maelstrom of chaos that made up his mind, it probably was. Not that the fact that the Joker thought this made good sense made it any less of a terrible idea. "Which I can't, uh, do unless you give 'em to me."

"No." He backed away on the bed as far as he could, which wasn't much at all, considering that he'd already been against the headboard.

"C'mon, Jonny. Do you wanna get out of here or not?"

_Not like that._ He wasn't sure if it was his thought or Scarecrow's, but either way, it didn't matter. They were both of the same opinion on this issue, and for good reason. "And getting rid of my meds gets us out of here _how_, precisely?" He wondered if he could get into the bathroom and lock the door without the Joker tackling him before he got there. Not that the door, locked or otherwise, would keep the Joker out for long.

Though, for whatever reason, he wasn't being forceful at the moment. Jonathan supposed he could be thankful for that, but it just made him worry all the more. The Joker could be menacing and brutal beyond belief before he was violent, but he didn't have to be. He was also disturbingly good at acting perfectly calm or happy right before he murdered someone with a soda can.

Not that Jonathan had ever seen him use a soda can for lethal purposes, but he wouldn't put it past him. The Joker was also brilliant where improvised weaponry was concerned. The Batman may have removed all the obvious dangerous objects from the room, but Jonathan had no doubt that his friend could inflict severe pain with the cell phone charger, or the bed sheets.

"You need those to function, don't ya?"

"Yes. Very, very much." His mind was still racing through possible escape routes and theories as to what the Joker could possibly gain by taking the meds. Scarecrow's commentary, which consisted mostly of empty threats to the Joker and warnings to Jonathan, wasn't helping. This was one of those times when he wished his mind didn't work as fast as it did.

"Exactly. So, if you give me those, and I get rid of 'em, the effects will wear off, and Bats will have to take you back. And I'll insist on coming with him, 'cause I'm concerned for your safety."

"He's not going to believe that." He swallowed hard, body tensed to leap from the bed if the Joker made any sudden moves. "The Batman will know what you're up to and take me without you."

"No, he won't." The Joker smiled, pulled the cell phone from his pocket with the hand he wasn't holding out. "Not unless he wants me to stop calling. On the flip side? If he takes me back, I'll call and cancel the whole thing."

For a moment the plan had seemed almost logical—Jonathan might have been able to get behind it had the Joker not wanted to steal _his _meds—but any sense it had had dissolved the instant he caught sight of the phone. "You idiot."

The Joker's smile faltered. "What, have ya got a better plan, kitten?"

"Yes, actually." It occurred to him that insulting the clown wouldn't win him any favors and he backed up again, giving him no more space to move back unless he wanted to fall off of the bed. "Why don't you just tell him to take us back to Arkham? Even if he doesn't want to take us back because we know his identity, you're holding the ace. If he takes us back, you stop the bombs, and if he doesn't, you blow a building sky high. There's no need to make me suffer to get us back there."

He shook his head. "Good idea, but you're forgetting who you're talking to. I'm not gonna go back just because I can."

Jonathan stared, at a loss for a clever retort or even a biting one. "What?"

Scarecrow answered before the Joker could. _He doesn't want to lose face in front of the Batman. Not more than he already has, anyway._

And just like that, the rationale fell into place. Not that it made the scheme any less horrible, but at least the picture was discernable, nightmarish as it was. The Joker had been marginalized time and time again since coming here. His makeup had been removed, the dress had been taken at some point, he'd been panicked and broken , and had failed to intimidate an old man. An old man who was more than imposing himself, but still. Sure, he _could _just tell the Batman to take them back to Arkham or he'd stop calling his men, but that, in the Joker's mind, would be akin to admitting defeat.

After all, he had come here to corrupt the Bat in the first place. At least, as far as Jonathan could figure. He had a better insight into the clown's mind than most, though that understanding was on par with trying to read _The Odyssey _in the original Greek after one semester of studying the language. It was his working assumption that the Joker had meant to bring the Batman to his level, anyway, and as the last few days had made readily apparent, that plan was failing miserably. But the Joker, having an ego roughly the size of the solar system, could never admit defeat. Telling Batman to take him out of the mansion would be running away even if he still technically held the upper hand in regards to the phone calls.

So instead, he'd come up with this convoluted plan. A plan that, of course, benefitted him far, far more than it did Jonathan. Not surprising, when he thought about it. Essentially every plan of the Joker's that he'd been involved with ended with Jonathan captured or injured, while the Joker skipped off to stab people and give crystal meth to small children and pet dogs, or whatever it was he did in his spare time. Most of his spare time when they'd been together had been spent bothering Jonathan, because that was just the sort of life the psychiatrist led.

"No," he said, cutting off whatever explanation the Joker had been giving.

The clown cut off mid-word, fixing Jonathan with what was not quite a glare as he licked his lips. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He crossed his arms, both to reassure himself and to further shield the prescription from the Joker, should he try using force to get his way. "You want to make some ridiculous, drawn-out plan to get out of here without further emasculating yourself? Do it on your own."

The smirk had fully left the Joker's face now, his mouth set in a tight, slightly twitching line. "I don't think you fully understand, Jonny. It'd be in your best interests to do this willingly. It really would."

"No." He uncrossed his arms, keeping the hand with the prescription behind his back and the other held before him in defense. "There's _nothing _you can say that will talk me into this."

"You don't even like those pills. You're always bitching about the side effects, aren'tcha?"

"Not the point. And my answer is still no."

The Joker sighed, letting the hand he'd had extended drop. "I can get out of here without ya, you know. I'm giving you this opportunity 'cause I figured you wouldn't wanna be left behind. But if you don't agree, I will find another way out of here, and I'll do it without inviting you along."

"Then come up with a new plan." He felt his stomach clench at that, but much as he did _not _want to be stuck with the Batman while poorly medicated, he wanted to go through withdrawal and suffer the torment that came from being un-medicated even less. "I'm not going to let myself be hurt to let you escape with your pride intact."

The Joker stared at him, with a look of pure confusion, or a perfect imitation thereof. Scarecrow assumed the latter; Jonathan was torn between the two. "Who said anything about you getting hurt?"

"Idiot." Well, that settled things. It had to be an act on the Joker's part; there was no way a person who stole and read the other villains' psychiatric records when he was bored wouldn't know what happened when he went off the meds.

"No, seriously." He put on hand on Jonathan's knee, refusing to lift it as his companion jerked away. "I'm not gonna hurt you, Jonny. And I doubt the Batman's gonna beat the straw out of you for going crazy. I'll make sure he doesn't, if you help me out with this."

Jonathan shook his head rapidly, as if that could clear his growing panic and the cacophony of his own thoughts mixing with scarecrows. "You don't understand. Those pills counteract the brain damage the exposure to my fear toxin gave me."

"I know. It's in your file."

"In that case, you have to know what happens when I don't _have _something to counteract that damage." He shuddered at the memory of the last time that had happened, from last December to late February, the fear he'd felt every waking moment when Scarecrow wasn't in charge. The damage he'd wreaked on his own body, in a panicked attempt to retain some grip on reality through pain.

"Yeah, the hallucinations and, uh, tremors and stuff. You don't have to be worried about that." He sounded so confident, so self-assured about all of this that Jonathan might have been drawn to his point of view if not for his firsthand experiences without the meds and the way Scarecrow was still shouting obscenities at the Joker in the back of his mind. "I'm gonna get you out of here as soon as that stuff really kicks in. You won't have to deal with it for long."

"It takes up to three weeks for the antipsychotics to build back up in my system. Three weeks of madness certainly falls under my definition of 'long.' Bastard." The last bit had been Scarecrow, though it was an accurate representation of Jonathan's feelings as well.

"But you'll be sedated, won't ya? You won't feel the effects as vividly. And I can wait 'til those three weeks are up before I leave Arkham, so you can come with me."

_As if I'd ever want to go anywhere with you again, after all the shit you put me through._ Scarecrow again, though Jonathan was tempted to shout it. "You don't understand," he repeated, through clenched teeth.

"What don't I understand, Jonny?" Goddamn him and his tone of infuriating calm. Jonathan would have preferred violence, or threats. At least then he'd know for sure that the Joker was being a self-serving bastard. But when he acted 'rational' like this, it was far too easy to fall for it.

"It doesn't matter how _long _I go without the meds. Being off them at all…" He sighed, glanced down at his wrist. The scars were visible, sticking out from beneath the sleeve. "Bad things will happen. Very bad."

"I'll watch out for you."

_Why does he have to be so good at pretending to care?_

_Because he's the spawn of Satan. Block him out._

If only it was that easy. "You can't handle this."

"I've dealt with you out of it before. With the withdrawal from the sedatives and the time you had the, uh, laughing gas."

"It's _not_ the same. With the laughing gas I _knew _what I was seeing wasn't real, and with the sedatives I was too weak to be a danger to myself. With the brain damage there's this…" He wound a hand through his hair in frustration, trying to figure out how to explain this to someone who clearly couldn't care less. "This…psychotic energy, mixed with the inability to tell reality to from hallucination. You _cannot _handle it."

"Have you ever seen anything I couldn't handle?"

"Besides being here?" Scarecrow asked. Jonathan flinched, and hastily added, "Look." He unwound his fingers from his hair, extended his left hand so that the circular scar piercing through it was visible. He still had no sensation at all in that part of his hand. "When I start to hallucinate, the only way I can keep any grasp on reality at all is through causing myself pain. The last time I went off the meds, I fired a _nail gun _through my hand. If I feel like I need to hurt myself in that state, nothing, not even you, can stop it."

"There aren't any nail guns in here, kitten."

"I could turn _anything _in this room into a weapon if I got desperate enough. I'd start biting chunks out of my arm if I couldn't get a tool. I am _not _going back to that. I don't care if it gets us out of here or not. Find a new plan. Leave without me, for all I care."

For a moment there was only silence. Then the Joker spoke again, voice and face uncharacteristically restrained, serious. "If I leave without you, do you think the Batman's going to let you leave?"

"What?" He felt his stomach go cold again, unable to keep from considering it, even with Scarecrow's warnings to block the Joker out.

"Now that you know his secret. I've got leverage in the form of the bombs. You've got nothing. What makes you think he'd ever let you out?"

"He wouldn't kill—"

"I didn't say anything about killing, Jonny. Just that you'd be trapped. Here. With the Batman. Forever. Unless, of course, you could do this one little thing for me."

_Bastard. _And he was. But that didn't make the threats he was making any less true. "I can't do that to myself again. I _can't_."

"Jonny." The Joker reached out, pressed his palm flat against Jonathan's own hand, still held out to display the scar. "I won't let you get hurt."

"You can't ensure that—"

He closed his hand around Jonathan's, brought it forward. He knelt down and kissed the nail gun scar, leaving a faint lipstick mark behind. "I promise I won't let you get hurt. Please, help me with this."

_Fuck him. He's lying. Remember the last time he made a promise to you?_

Jonathan remembered it all too well; how the Joker had abandoned him, leaving him to fend for himself against the Batman while the clown ran away, after promising not to do just that. He didn't believe this promise either, convincing as the Joker was making himself. But that didn't make the argument any less true. _If I don't do this, he'll leave me here._

_You don't need _him _to get out. We can do this on our own. Say no; if he tries to take them by force, put up a fight, and the Batman will throw him in the cell again._

_And he'll break out again, and beat my brains in before he leaves, just for spite. _Jonathan shook his head, ignored the puzzled look the Joker was fixing him with. _And if he breaks out before I do, I'll end up in that cell, and the Bat will just get restraints that I can't dislocate my way out of. I can't stay here forever._

_And you can't be stupid enough to fall for this. The Joker's every bit as bad as the Bat._

_No. _Terrible as the Joker was, and he was, there was no doubt about that, the damage he'd inflicted had healed. Maybe not the emotional turmoil, but his ribs were no longer in pieces, the stitching gone from his lung. The brain damage would never go away, and even if it could, the Batman had taken far more than his sanity from him. His career, his respect, everything he'd worked for in his life gone with one inhalation of his own concoction. The Joker might be a devil, but the Batman? Satan himself.

_Don't do this._ Scarecrow's voice was hard, harder than he'd ever heard it. _If you're stupid enough to fall for this, Jonathan, I will leave, I promise you that. I'm not going to let myself be hurt._

_We share this body. _Not that it mattered. Scarecrow had proven that he was able to block himself out completely before.

_Doesn't matter. I'm not sharing your bad decisions._

_I can't do this without you. You're the only thing that kept me from falling apart the last time I went without the meds._

_You've already made up your mind, then. _He wasn't asking, because they both knew it was the truth. _Fine. Enjoy life, then. I might come back when this whole thing is over, and you've decided you need me again._

_No, don't—_He was gone. There wasn't even the sensation of being deserted; Scarecrow left, suddenly, and he knew from experience that no matter how much he shouted or begged, his other half wouldn't come back until he decided to. If he ever decided to. And now he had no choice but to go along with the Joker, because he had no chance of escape on his own without his alter ego. He'd be able to plan something, he knew, but he also knew that without Scarecrow to support him, he'd fail. Scarecrow had a way of picking up on things he didn't, and anyway, he needed the moral support.

The Joker was still holding his hand, inches away, and he'd never felt this alone in his life.

Tears stinging his eyes, he brought his right hand from behind his back, the bottle within his grasp. "Don't let anything bad happen."

The Joker took the bottle, kissed Jonathan's cheek. "I won't. I promise." And then he was up, hand leaving Jonathan's as he slid off the bed and headed to the bathroom.

And, more than he'd ever hoped for anything in his life, Jonathan found himself wishing with all he had, against better judgment and past experience, that this promise would go against the grain and prove itself true.


	46. Slipping

AN: Sorry about the delay. Last night was my dorm's Midnight Breakfast and Paper Plate Awards. According to the others in my dorm, I'm apparently the Most Likely to End Up Writing For Cracked (a comedy website). I feel good about life right now.

Anyway, this is my finals/moving out of the dorm for the summer week, so if there are delays, I'm sorry about that. I should actually be packing right now, but I've got all night. Who needs sleep anyway? …I can't believe I made the Dean's List, with my priorities.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

The Joker surveyed the bathroom and wondered where a camera would be hidden, if there was a camera. It appeared that, at some point while he'd been out of it, Bats had taken everything out of the place that could be used as a weapon. The drawers to the sink cabinets were gone, the cabinets themselves full of nothing but towels. The hairbrush was too lightweight to bludgeon anyone with, he decided, though he'd be willing to test that theory if the need arose. The mirror could be broken, he supposed, but he'd have to punch it to do so, as there was nothing else in the room that could gain enough momentum to cause that damage. Not that he minded getting a few shards of glass into his hand, but the time it would take to break it and retrieve the pieces was time in which he could be caught, should a struggle occur.

Not that he expected such a struggle to arise. But the fact that nothing in the bathroom could really be a weapon—unless one was so inclined as to grab his opponent's head and slam it against the tub or something, repeatedly—made him guess there wasn't a camera in here. There wouldn't be much of a point, unless Bats wanted to get off on his prisoners showering or otherwise relieving themselves, and repressed as the Joker guessed Batsy was, he doubted that was the case. If anything, the room would be bugged, but if there were no microphones in the bedroom—and given how there was no interference from Batman, even though Jonny had gotten rather loud in his protests against the plan—there wouldn't be here. Bats probably hadn't been too concerned about listening in when Joker had been out of it—aside from the phone, which the clown would bet a good sum of someone else's money was tapped—and he hadn't had time since the Joker had woken up.

Still, there was no point in taking risks. If there were cameras, they'd likely be facing the cabinets and shower, where things could be concealed. So as long as he kept the bottle obscured in his hands and stayed facing straight ahead, things should be good.

_Strange, _he thought, watching the little white pills disappear down the pipes, _how dependent people can be on a chemical. _And how drastic a change it could make in a person, if Jonny was really as bad without it as he said. His friend was incredibly neurotic, the sort of person who'd become firmly convinced he was dying of pneumonia if caught out in the rain for a minute without an umbrella, but the nail gun thing was a convincing argument for the whole 'no, seriously, I need this stuff to function' deal. He supposed he believed Jonny on that front, but that didn't make the fact that ten or twenty milligrams of chemicals could completely change a person's personality any less weird.

He didn't take the meds at Arkham for that reason. Not that there wasn't a benefit to drugging people, if one wanted to prevent chaos and anarchy, but the idea of having his brilliant mind diluted and handicapped by a drug didn't appeal to him. He didn't take recreational drugs for the same purpose. They had their economic use for the city's gangs, of course, and they felt good, but his perception was fascinating without fucking with it, and he didn't need the dependence.

"I'm assuming you're gonna go through withdrawal?" he asked, stepping back into the bedroom. Jonny was still sitting on the bed, staring down at the sheets. The Joker couldn't see how that would possibly help to lighten his mood, but to each their own. He doubted Jonny would appreciate an attempt to cheer him up, and he wasn't in the mood to get in a fight and end up beating or threatening his soon to be psychotic roommate.

"Yes."

"Ah. And that'll be what, exactly?"

"Tremors, weakness, nausea—and from that, more than likely, vomiting—fever, and fatigue. Also, possibly seizures. Or death."

Hopefully the fatigue would keep him out most of the time, and keep Batman from picking up on things. "You're not gonna die."

"It would probably be preferable."

"Hey." The Joker sat, put his hand over Jonny's. He resisted the urge to touch the scar—the wounds of others were almost as intriguing as his own—as he doubted another reminder of the oncoming insanity would be helpful. "You'll be okay."

"Experience says otherwise."

"Yeah? Well, your experience has never had the Joker in it, now has it? Not in regards to this. Think about it, Jonny, have ya ever seen one of my plans go wrong?"

"Well…" He raised his head, bit his lower lip for a moment, as if in serious thought. "Besides the time the ferries failed to blow up, or the time you tried to get information on Harvey Dent from Anna Ramirez, or the time the Batman caught us while you were in my house, breaking my microwave—"

"It didn't break."

"Only because you had the sense, somehow, to unplug it when the can inside caught flame. Anyway, aside from all that, and any other time the Batman has caught you ever, you're right. Your plans are completely successful."

_Don't be such an optimist there, scaredy cat. _"Remember way back when, when I said sarcasm's just a, uh, bad coping method to hide insecurities?"

"Says the man who can't be confronted with an alternate view of his motivations without dissociating from reality."

It took a good deal of effort not to smack him for that. The Joker hoped Jonny appreciated, at least on some level, just how restrained and nice he was being. "So…" he said, through clenched teeth, before taking a moment to breathe and think about calming things like raindrops on roses and opening fire on school buses. "How long before the withdrawal starts?"

"Tomorrow."

His mouth dropped open, a bit. "Tomorrow?"

"They had me on that three times a day, and it wasn't a low dosage."

Wow. Well, that sped things up. "And the crazy starts when, exactly?"

"It's a gradual thing. It'll start up in two days or so, I'd say, and build."

"Good to know." He supposed Crazy Jonny would be easier to handle without the withdrawal at the same time.

"I hate you."

"Okay."

* * *

Jonny slept until one the next day, which wasn't characteristic of him, even with the insomnia. In all their time together, even if the scarecrow was tossing and turning into all hours of the night, he always woke at an irrational hour, like seven in the morning. Aside from the beginning of their relationship, anyway, when Jonny had somehow willed himself into sleeping for as long as the average koala. Maybe he was doing that. Or the withdrawal had started. He did look a little paler than usual. Either way, the Joker didn't particularly want to deal with a sick scarecrow during the wait for a differently-sick one, so he was uncharacteristically silent. Aside from when Bats came in, anyway, but he had to be verbose there. Otherwise it would be suspicious, and not at all fun.

It wasn't until a bit before one that it occurred to the Joker that his friend may have a fever. At which point the Joker should probably wake him up and make him drink something before he got dehydrated. He knelt down to Jonny's side of the bed and felt his forehead, which was warm, but not alarmingly so, and those startlingly blue eyes opened the second his hand made contact.

"What are you doing?"

In response, the Joker held up an apple. "Breakfast? Or lunch, I guess."

Jonny went a striking shade of green and bolted into the bathroom so quickly, the Joker wasn't sure his feet ever touched the ground. He appeared a minute or so later, leaning on the doorframe. Whether that was because he couldn't stand up on his own or he was just tired, the Joker wasn't sure. "Apparently I'm not that nauseous yet."

"So…do ya want food or don't you?"

"No. I'll be in the shower."

"Didn't you take one this morning?"

"I take showers when I'm stressed." He moved to straighten up, and ended up only tightening his grip on the doorframe. "When I close my eyes I can just listen to the rhythm and pretend the rest of the world isn't there."

"That…kinda makes no sense for a guy who's afraid of water."

"It's a coping mechanism. It doesn't have to make sense."

"Have fun with that."

It was in the shower, five minutes later, that Jonny started vomiting, and he continued to do so, intermittently, until ten that night when he fell asleep.

* * *

By some miracle, Jonny managed to stay out of it during the Batman's night and morning visits, and by another miracle, he wasn't having loud, screaming nightmares during that time either. Not that he didn't have screaming fits in his sleep during medicated periods as well. Hell, going from the sound of them, his nightmares were probably why he had insomnia to begin with.

His fever seemed to have raised slightly, the Joker noted at eleven or so, and he'd begun to shake, if only slightly. Deciding that dehydration could become an issue, especially given all the vomiting, the Joker shook him awake, as gently as one could manhandle a sleeping man in consciousness. "You need to drink."

"I think I'm dying."

"No, you're not." He lifted him into a sitting position, holding up a water bottle. Jonny wasn't shaking hard yet, but he didn't feel like letting the sheets get soaked should his friend's coordination be off. "You've been through this before, remember?"

"Not alone."

"What?"

Jonny, drinking, didn't answer.

"So…is the insanity coming back?"

He stopped. "Fuck you."

"I'm asking out of concern, thank you. I'd like to know, uh, the exact moment I should start keeping you away from anything with a sharp edge, but hey, if you'd rather I let you do whatever you want—"

"I feel a sense of irrational dread that's unrelated to the withdrawal," Jonny said, placing two fingers to the opposite wrist. "And my pulse is mildly faster, though that may be from the lack of meds."

"There. Was that so hard?"

"This was a terrible idea," he muttered, almost to himself. "You're not going to be able to deal with this."

"I've dealt with ya on withdrawal. And it might not be the same," he added, as Jonny started to shake his head, "but handling you when you're hallucinating and screaming and crying 'cause you miss your teddy bear is no cakewalk either—"

"Because what?!" For the first time in the past two day, Jonny had an expression beyond grief, anger, or nausea, and a blush unrelated to the fever.

"Your teddy bear. That you had when you were a kid, that your great-grandmother threw away when you started kindergarten, and for the next week and a half you cried yourself to sleep without it? Yeah. You told Harley and me all about that."

"That was the hallucinations. I didn't have a teddy bear."

"Sure." The Joker rolled his eyes. "Wanna try eating again?"

"I suppose." He said it with all the optimism of a man on his way to the gallows.

When it became apparent that food wasn't staying down, the Joker settled for forcing as much water into him as he possibly could. The tremors increased to near-seizure levels, and during the times the Bat came back in, the Joker had to hide Jonny in the bathtub, lined with all the towels to keep him from cracking his head open against the porcelain. Amazingly, there was no moaning or screaming during those times, which the Joker took as a sign that, contradictory as it seemed, if there was a God, He must love homicidal clowns.

* * *

The next day, the shaking had lessened, thankfully, and the vomiting had become less _The Exorcist _and more mild stomach flu. Jonny was able to keep some of it down, anyway, and that was something. Not that his mood had improved, but then, that would be the opposite of what the Joker wanted.

"I hate this." Jonathan announced to no one in particular, at some point in the afternoon. He'd begun jumping at the slightest sound, and kept freezing up and glancing over his shoulder, which the Joker took as a sign that he was starting to have auditory hallucinations at least.

"What are you afraid of?" he asked, about the nine hundredth time Jonny glanced around.

"Birds."

"I thought ya liked birds."

Jonny stared at him as if he'd suddenly become a peaceful, law-abiding Boy Scout. "No."

"Didn'tcha tell Harley you liked them?"

"I lied. I don't like admitting that unless I have to, or it's not worth the effort, like now."

"Because it's a stupid fear?" he guessed.

"There's _nothing _stupid about it."

The Joker thought back to the small, odd scars he'd once seen over Jonny's body, recalled that he'd said they were caused by birds, and decided not to press the issue.

* * *

Jonny was only sick one time the next day, and for once, he was the one to wake the Joker. He looked white as a sheet when he did, and his eyes kept darting away during their conversations, yet never quite focusing on anything else. The Joker took that as a sign that if he was having visual hallucinations, they weren't fully formed. That, mixed with his near-complete coherence in conversation, told the Joker he was still too lucid to bring to Batsy's attention.

"I want the meds back."

"You can't," he said, as patiently as he could. "I don't have them now."

"I _need _them back." The shaking was a bit worse again, though it wasn't shaking so much as twitching now. Probably related to the insanity, and not the drugs.

"You'll have them back. Just give it another day or so, okay?"

Jonny shook his head. "I can't."

"Yes, you can. I have the utmost faith in you, kitten." He reached up to pull Jonny's hands from his shoulders, noted that he didn't feel warm anymore. And that his pulse was hammering. He pushed Jonny back onto the mattress, as gently as he could, and his friend immediately hugged onto him, with a force he doubted even the Batman could break. "Look, in another day or two, we'll be back at Arkham, and you can have all the drugs you want. And your friends will be there. Focus on that, all right?"

He shook his head, clinging to the Joker as tightly as he could. "I can't do this. I can't be alone like this."

"You're not alone. I'm here, aren't?"

"It's not the same."

"As what?"

"I can feel it," Jonny muttered, unwinding one arm from the Joker to rub his temple, as if that could snuff out the madness burning inside. "I can feel myself falling apart. It's like a tide. It's like a tide, and I can feel my mind going in and out, and it used to be that I could keep hold of it somehow, when it was in, keep it from flowing out, but now it keeps slipping through my fingers and I can't hold on and it's not coming as often or as far in."

"It's all right." He stroked Jonny's hair, to no discernable response.

"I can _feel _it. Do you know what it's like to feel your sanity unraveling? It's sliding farther and farther away and I don't know if I can get it back. I don't think I can, I really don't. Not alone."

"You're not alone, and you can. You will. Just try to sleep, okay?"

So he did, and every moment of the day he wasn't, he spent at the Joker's side, too afraid to be without constant reassurance, it seemed.

When Bats showed up that midnight, he had another blanket.

"What's that for?" the Joker asked, clicking the phone shut, and hooking it up to the charger.

"He's cold, isn't he?" Batsy responded, with a glance at Jonny, who'd fallen asleep clinging to the Joker. This was the first time the Bat hadn't seen him shaking in days, come to think of it. He wasn't twitching in his sleep anymore, which the Joker took as a sign that it was psychosomatic after all.

He figured out what Batman meant just in time to keep his face from going blank. "You've got hospitality to rival the Hiltons, know that?"

Bats looked as if he was about to say something rude, but focused on Jonny inside.

"Something for you?" the Joker asked, mildly jealous and more than mildly worried at the possibility of Batman finding out. If Batsy knew before Jonny was completely gone, he might have the time to get the pills without taking them back to Arkham.

"I don't understand why he's so close to you." The 'after all you've done' wasn't said, but it didn't need to be. Bats had said the same of Harley more than once.

"He's a pet. You know what they say, about how a dog will look to you for affection no matter how many times you kick it?"

"He's a human being." It was amazing just how much disapproval he could put into his voice.

"Still a pet. But honestly, the funny thing about narcissists? They've got no common sense or, uh, self preservation, really. And on a subconscious level, they know they suck at taking care of themselves, so they'll latch onto someone they view as an authority. Usually someone who scares them." Partly to get him out of the room faster, and partly to be an ass, he added, "Which makes it weird that he's not crushing on you, actually."

Bats glared and started for the door. "You're a monster."

"Yep. And yet, I've still treated him better than most of the people in his life. Truth hurts, doesn't it?"

Apparently not having a response to that, the Batman left.

* * *

AN: I know some comics portray the Joker as a drug user, but I just can't see him doing that. I know he's a criminal without morals, I imagine his mind is trippy enough as it is.

Koalas sleep about nineteen hours a day.

"Raindrops on roses" comes from the song "A Few of My Favorite Things" in _The Sound of Music._

As far as I know, I made the teddy bear thing up. I don't know that much about Jonathan's personal life, besides his great-grandmother, and the fact that, according to the _Superfriends _comics, he has posters in his bedroom for musicians such as "Britney Spearmint," "The Spicy Tarts," and "The New Boys from the Arcade," who signed their poster "To John." I now have this really random mental image of Crane rocking out to "Baby One More Time" alone in his house. The fact that Cillian Murphy can sing makes it all the scarier.

The possessed girl in _The Exorcist _projectile vomits twice. The Hiltons are an American family that run a famous hotel chain.


	47. What Is This Feeling?

AN: Sorry for the delay; yesterday was my roommate's last night here, so I spent it with her. Good luck in Ohio, Sara, I've have no doubt you'll be just as awesome there as you were at BSU!

This chapter references my fic _Act Like We Are Fools _slightly. In that fic, Jonathan created a laughing gas that the Joker force-fed him to test it, and toward the end, Jonathan taunts the Joker with the idea that the Batman likes him more, in order to get under the Joker's skin. The statements in this chapter about 'not meaning to', 'didn't like it', and 'shouldn't have said that', are in reference to that exchange.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

The Joker's last thought before falling asleep was that Jonny was probably going to wake him again, either in the morning or dead of night, begging for the pills or seeking shelter from whatever half-formed images and sounds his mind was fabricating. He was sure to be worse than he'd been the previous day, but given that Jonny had said the descent was gradual and he'd seemed relatively well-adjusted considering his descriptions of things going on in his head, the Joker doubted he was going to wake up all psychotic and unrestrained. Still, he expected to be woken up by Jonny, however much farther down the slope his friend had to fall.

So he was surprised to find himself brought out of sleep of his own accord, staring up at the ceiling as Jonny lay beside him, still unconscious. He guessed it was early morning, judging by the faint light coming through the window shades, an odd time for him to wake up. He tried to remember if he'd been dreaming about anything, and found that he couldn't recall. Dreams were strange that way. Odd that people never seemed to find it weird when they'd forget what their brain had been showing them all night within a minute or so of waking.

It hadn't been a nightmare, then. At least, not that he could remember, and if he had no recollection of the experience, it may as well not have happened. Maybe Jonny had been having loud, violent dreams again. He turned to glance at Jonny, who still had a death grip on his arm, even in sleep. His expression wasn't peaceful, with his eyes tightly shut, brows furrowed, and mouth set tighter than the Joker had ever seen a sleeping person's mouth go. Still, he wasn't moaning or shouting, which was something. Either his dreams at this point were very preferable to his waking moments, or he was experiencing something too terrible for screams to express.

Either way, the Joker wished he'd just lose it already.

Patience did not suit the Clown Prince of Crime. He could make himself be patient, as he was now, but it was _so _boring. His body felt, well, not quite on fire, but itching to get out, to do any of the million and one things he'd thought up in the time since deciding to leave. They might not all shatter what remained of imperfect human Bruce Wayne inside his wonderful mythical Bat, but they'd all be fun. Especially that thing with the food processor, that sounded like hours of entertainment, no matter whom or what he used it on. Probably not Bats, anyway, he got the feeling Bats would respond better to psychological types of torture. Plus, he wouldn't be nearly so gorgeous if the Joker tried that.

_Speaking of psychological…_ He gave Jonny another glance. It was disconcerting, how tight his friend was holding on, given that he wasn't conscious. The Joker realized he couldn't feel his arm, and hoped it had just fallen asleep and not lost circulation completely. He considering moving, but it would take too much effort to untangle Jonny, and if he woke him up by accident, he'd probably cling harder. Besides, aside from the lack of sensation, he was comfortable, and it was really too early to be moving around.

He had no idea why he'd woken up so early. Maybe it was his body's way of telling him it was unhappy with being stuck here. Well, if that was the case, fuck his body. It was certainly good-looking enough. Anyway, he still had his dignity, and he wasn't about to send that down the pipes just so he could get out earlier by picking the lock again and slinking off into the night with his tail between his legs. It wasn't as if he could go gloriously crashing through the window in full view of Batsy either, thanks to the bars. And he didn't have a file or salsa and a radio either, so he couldn't cut through the bars.

Whatever. If his body was trying to punish him, he could hold out for a few days. He'd managed to destroy whoever had been in this body before years ago, aside from the annoying static thing, so this was nothing. And soon enough they'd be back in Arkham, and then he could force himself out of the straitjacket and make his way out.

They might not even put him in a straitjacket this time. He'd be coming quietly, after all, so doing that would be excessive. Not that Arkham wasn't always excessive where the Joker was concerned. And not that the excessive ever made a difference. This time, they might be more concerned with Jonny, though. Whenever he finally went over the edge.

Whatever breakdown he was edging towards had better be spectacular, after the wait. The Joker got the feeling that it might be disappointing, though. They said the anticipation of an event was better than the event in itself. And given that Jonny reacted to each and every event in his life with the melodramatic tendencies of a teenage girl, the odds of this being as bad as he made it out to be weren't exactly in his favor. Not that they were completely against him, as the whole nail-through-the-hand thing, along with his other scars, added credibility. And the Arkham files made a big deal out of it.

Of course, Arkham had a bad habit of grossly overreacting to the tiniest things, like saying that harmless hobbies such as killing people were a sign of severe mental illness, or some such nonsense. It was the Joker's opinion that boring things like stamp collections or working day after day in the world's worst institution were more indicative of a serious problem. Harley certainly seemed happier now that she wasn't sitting behind a desk all day, listening to people bitch. He was proud to say that he'd never done that. They'd talked about lots of things—the weather, politics, and the time he'd systematically destroyed her self-worth and worldview—but not his crappy childhood. Well, maybe they had on occasion, but looking back, those stories didn't seem true anymore.

Jonny twitched in his sleep, pulling away from the Joker's arm. It was only slightly, but the increased blood flow regained feeling to his arm and caused that hideous pins and needles sensation that was beyond uncomfortable and too bizarre to qualify even as bad pain. Involuntary, he pulled away himself, and Jonny opened his eyes the moment that he did.

For a moment, his eyes were his own, vividly blue yet somewhat clouded by sleep. Then he blinked, and they were someone else's entirely.

Not someone else's in the sense of a different person, exactly; this certainly wasn't Scarecrow, or any other personality he may have thought up that the Joker didn't know about. No, somewhere beneath that crazed look there was a flash of Jonny, but this wasn't _his _Jonny he was seeing. The closest Jonny's expression had ever been to being so foreign was the time he'd gotten drunk, but that had just been a hazy, flushed look. This…his friend was clearly under the influence of something far more powerful than a drug could ever hope to be, and for a moment the Joker could only lay there, watching the blood drain from Jonny's face in record time.

Then he found his voice again. "Jonny?"

Those completely focused yet strangely vacant eyes darted to him, and widened instantaneously. Jonny made a noise that wasn't quite a gasp, more like a scream that had caught in the throat, and pushed away immediately after, raising his arms as if to defend himself from a blow that wasn't coming as he started to slip off the bed.

The Joker, lost but vaguely registering that letting Jonny land on his head wasn't going to help matters at all, shot forward, hand closing around his friend's wrist to haul him back up. The other hand, still numb, didn't seem to close fully, so he pulled him up one-handed. "Jonny?"

He'd begun twitching again, but with much more force and frequency than he'd had the last time he'd been awake. It was as if he was being stabbed all over, and constantly. Upon hearing the Joker's voice he made a sound like a mix between a gasp and a moan, trying to pull his hand free, raking ragged, barely-there nails over the Joker's wrist.

_Nail-biting's disgusting, _he reflected, as he debated whether to push Jonny's hand away or let him exhaust himself, _but it does have its advantages. _In the past few days Jonny had chewed to the point where it was stop or bleed, and with the pressure his fingers were exerting on the Joker's wrist, he got the feeling his skin would be slashed up were it not for the nervous habit. He grabbed Jonny's wrist with the numb hand, holding as tightly as he could. It wasn't that tight at all, but the contact alone seemed to terrify Jonny even more, and he stopped struggling, terrified eyes flicking from the Joker to something else that existed only in his mind.

"I take it," the Joker said, in the gentlest voice he could manage, "that we've hit your breaking point?" Well, hit wasn't the most accurate term. 'Run over it with a Mack truck and then backed up over it a few dozen times' seemed a tiny bit more accurate.

Jonny flinched again. The Joker couldn't tell if he thought he was being hit or if sound was painful. He lowered his head, rocking slightly back and forth on the mattress, though not trying to break away, and muttering. "Please, don't hurt me. Don't. I shouldn't have said it, I won't say it again, don't. Please."

"Jonny." His voice was the softest he could make it while still being audible. "Listen, I'm not gonna hurt you, all right?" Assuming that Jonny was even speaking to him at the moment.

"I didn't mean it," he went on as if he hadn't heard, rambling and rocking and occasionally try to jerk away with nowhere to go. "I didn't mean it, I didn't like it, and I know he's yours. He's yours. I didn't like it. Don't hurt me."

To the Joker's astonishment, there were tears in Jonny's eyes. It occurred to him that, at least while medicated, Jonny had _never _cried for fear of him. For other reasons, definitely. The reasons usually being pain or sorrow, but never fear. Even when he'd been under the influence of laughing gas, those tears had been caused by laughing too hard, not terror. Jonny wasn't seeing him, whatever he was seeing. This was not his Jonathan. This was wrong, somehow, even though it was exactly what he'd planned.

He was at a loss for what Jonny was talking about, but he got the feeling that if he just sat there and watching him panic, his friend was going to have a heart attack. "I know you didn't mean it. I'm not mad. It's okay."

"I can't do this." For a moment, he stopped struggling, though the clarity lacking in his eyes told the Joker he wasn't having a moment of lucidity. His mind had swapped one torment out for another, that was all. "I can't do this. I can't—it's empty. Empty. I can't."

"You don't have to do this anymore," the Joker said, wondering if it would help or hurt to hug him. Probably hurt. He'd never felt this way before; so useless. He wasn't a schemer, but he'd never been at a loss for a plan when one was needed. Until now. "Ba—Bruce is going to be here any minute, and then we'll go back to the hospital, and they'll fix everything, okay?"

Jonny gave no indication that he'd heard; only went back to glancing around the room, flinching and muttering and now, crying. This time whatever he was ranting was too low for the Joker to register, though the intermittent gasps of pain were not. He debated loosening his grip on Jonny's wrists, but that would just be asking for him to hurt himself. He needed to be restrained, uncomfortable or not.

And anyway, the Joker wasn't sure if the pain was being inflicted by him, or something that wasn't there.

He could feel Jonathan's pulse hammering in his wrists, even as his friend was trying to pull himself free. That didn't bode well. "Jonny."

He was sobbing, his breathing as disturbed as everything else about him. It made the sobs sound broken, ragged, as if his lungs were giving out inside him.

"Jonny." He risked releasing one of the man's wrists, holding both with the good hand now as he stroked Jonny's hair. It seemed to frighten him more than anything else. "Jonny, listen to me, all right?"

"I didn't mean to—"

"I know you didn't. It's okay. I know. Listen to me. The things that are scaring you? They're not real. Okay? They're not."

"Let go." Jonny moved as if to kick him, apparently having forgotten that his legs were crossed under him. All he accomplished was nearly sending himself flying off the bed again. "Let go, you're hurting me."

"I can't." He brought his hand back down to take Jonny's wrist again, loosened his grip as much as he could without making it easy for the man to break away. "I know you don't like it, but I have to. It's not real, all right? Just…try to remember that. It might help."

_As if. _The only things that would be of any help to his friend's predicament would be a heavy dose of tranquilizers and one of antipsychotics. And maybe a straitjacket. Given Jonny's current condition, it was almost certain he was incapable of separating hallucination from reality in the first place.

"Let _go_." He pulled away with unexpected ferocity, nearly breaking the Joker's grip before he went limp again. "I can't. I can't do this."

"You don't have to." The Joker took advantage of the sudden docility to pull Jonny closer, as gently as he could. "It's over, as soon as Bruce shows up. You did a really, really good job, Jonny, and you don't have to do this anymore." And where the hell was Bruce Wayne, anyway? The world's greatest detective and he hadn't registered by now that something was up? Shouldn't his Bat senses be tingling?

"Empty," Jonathan muttered, and to the Joker's surprise he leaned his head forward to rest on the clown's shoulder. "It's so empty. I can't. I can't be alone. I didn't want him to leave. I should have said no. I can't be alone, I can't put things back together. It's just empty space. Alone."

"You're _not _alone." Too hell with the mood swings; he released both wrists and brought his arms around Jonny, drawing him as closely as he could without inflicting pain. The Joker could feel an odd sensation, a sort of ache inside his stomach completely unrelated to hunger. He had no idea what it was; just that he couldn't stand the sight of Jonny falling apart like this, and that he wanted it to stop. "And I'm not leaving. Don't be scared."

He struggled to get free once more, breath now coming in short gasps, and when he spoke his voice sounded weaker, the accent thicker. "Don't—I'm sorry, I won't do it anymore, don't hurt me. I'll be good. I won't—don't hurt me."

"I'm not going to hurt you," the Joker said, as patiently as he could, and with more enunciation and pauses than he'd ever put in any sentence he recalled speaking. "I'm not who you think I am. What you're seeing isn't real."

"It—" Jonathan raised his head, looked at the Joker. For the first time since waking, there was a flicker in his eyes that indicated he was at least on the same continent as lucidity, though thousands of miles away. "It's…not real."

"That's right. It isn't real."

And then that spark vanished, and along with it, any relief the Joker had gained from the moment. "It's not real. It's not real. It's not…real—you're not—empty. Why is it empty? How can it be empty if—it has to be real. I wouldn't be alone. It has to be."

That feeling again. That terrible alien sensation inside him that seemed to be saying flushing the pills had been bad, even though the plan was working. It didn't make _sense. _He had no idea what was going on, only that he didn't like this feeling, and the more time he spent with Jonny, the worse it got. "Come on." Carefully, he slid to his end of the bed and stood, shifting Jonathan in his arms until he could carry him. "Let's go see Bruce."

Jonny was kicking and protesting every moment he stopped sobbing long enough to speak, and he had no idea how he was going to contain his friend as he picked the lock, let alone all the way to Batman's room, but he didn't care. He needed to get out of here, make this someone else's problem. He didn't want to feel this any more than he'd wanted to know the truth about Batman. It was wrong. It was weak. It was, as it turned out, completely unnecessary for him to try to pick the lock, because at that moment, the door opened and Batman entered, carrying a breakfast that was certainly going to go uneaten.

He took one look at the Joker, one at the sobbing scarecrow in his arms, and opened his mouth to speak. The Joker cut him off before he could begin, holding Jonathan out like an offering. "H—" No, he couldn't bring himself to say 'help,' not even with this foreign sensation telling him what he'd done wasn't right. He was not about to slip that far, not if he could prevent it. "Fix this."

* * *

AN: It's possible to use salsa and the current from a radio to eat through prison bars, according to the _Mythbusters._


	48. Not According to Plan

AN: Public service announcement for today: Go see _Star Trek. _That is all.

Sorry about the delay, moving out of college/getting reoriented at home proved to be a bit of a distraction.

As always, thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Batman's expression ran through a range of emotions that would have been very entertaining in any other circumstance. This circumstance, however, still stuck in Bruce Wayne's mansion with a hysterical scarecrow in his arms, made things decidedly less funny. For once, the Joker found himself unable to enjoy the fact that everything was going according to plan, and a plan occurring inside Batsy's house, no less. This place was about on par with Arkham in terms of security once he'd gotten out of the cells. And that was just sad.

"Hey!" he said, to regain Batman's attention. The man was currently focused on Jonny, a mixed look of concern and bewilderment on his face. "I thought bats were blind, not deaf. Fix this."

"What happened?" he asked, finally using his words. Lost as he was, his voice was still striving for that standard coolly commanding tone, which the Joker found mildly amusing.

"Oh, so you _are _blind. He lost it, obviously." The Joker took advantage of Batsy's distraction to shove Jonny into his arms. Seeing and hearing his friend panic was uncomfortable enough; holding his shaking body added a whole new level to the unease. Batman had it together enough not to drop him, and aside from muttering to himself more than ever—which cut down a bit on the sobbing—Jonny didn't react. "You're the savior here. Do something."

"I—how—did he run out of his medication?"

Could he get any more inept? Batman was supposed to take charge, not stand there stuttering. "I would know that how, Bats? He's not exactly open with me after the whole, uh, trying to kill him thing."

"He couldn't stop talking." Bats was giving him a suspicious look. _Hell. _If he figured it out, Jonny would go back alone, and then Joker would have no choice but to forgo dignity by running away.

"Well, _excuse me_ if I'm not watching him every minute of every day forever." God, even when he wasn't holding him, his body was still doing that sick feeling. "_You're _the one with a medicated psychopath in _your _house, so don't blame me for not keeping up on whether or not there's, uh, ergot in the straw."

And finally Batman was reacting in the correct way, guilt mixing in with the tension, much as he tried to hide both. How predictable. He probably believed this was his fault, despite the fact that he'd never asked for the scarecrow to be here in the first place. "How long has he been like this?"

The Joker shrugged. "Since he woke up. About, I dunno, half an hour ago. Are you gonna take him somewhere and fix this or what?"

Batman looked down at Jonny again, and then off at nothing in particular. "Why do these things always happen when Alfred's gone?"

Wonderful. Now Bats had lost it too. He was the only sane man, balancing on a rock in an ocean of instability. And if he had to deal with this weird feeling for much longer, he'd be swimming. "Bats." He waved a hand back and forth in front of that gorgeous face. "Go get your Batmobile and charge us into back to Arkham, or whatever. Unless you want this to continue."

Batsy snapped out of it, thankfully. Not so thankfully, he then held Jonny out to the Joker. "Take him."

And that twisted feeling in his stomach was back full force. "No thanks."

"I don't have time for this. Take him."

"He cries less when you hold him." Which was true; he was still crying, but mostly going on about emptiness and aloneness and birds, or something. Maybe Jonny couldn't recognize Bruce Wayne in this state, and as such was fine with him unless he was in the Batsuit.

"_Now_, Joker."

"Well, that's polite." Holding in a sigh, he took Jonny, which was much harder than it should have been, given the man's death grip on Bats. "Now what? You want me to hold him back into sanity?"

Batsy ran a hand through his hair, looking as if he was deliberating on something. Wonderful. He was conflicted and the Joker couldn't even enjoy it. This was so unfair.

"Bats."

He turned for the door. "I'll be right back."

"_What_?"

"I'll be right back. Hold him, and don't let him near anything sharp." And then, before the Joker could argue, he was gone. Well, this day just got better and better.

He regarded Jonny, who'd gone back to the sobbing. Maybe he should remove the makeup, though the green hair and coat would still be a tip off to his identity. He really didn't want to, though the more he thought about it, the more he wondered if this stupid feeling would go away were he to do so. But it would involve putting Jonny down, which would most certainly be unwise, unless he wanted to tie him with the sheets or something. He was still considering the option when Bats came back, syringe in hand. "Put him on the bed."

"What's that?" The Joker wanted out of this mansion, more than anything else, but he definitely did not want Batsy to play Dr. Kevorkian on his friend.

"Sedative. Here, hold his arm out."

Oh. Well, that the Joker approved of. Sleeping scarecrows were harder to feel bad about than waking, raving scarecrows. Not that holding him still was easy, what with the thrashing and the constant shrieks of "Don't hurt me!" but the needle went in, eventually. It was weird, watching Bats try to be soothing as he drugged the man.

"Why isn't it working?"

"Give it a minute."

The Joker stood, leaving Bats to keep Jonny lying down. "Be right back." Ignoring whatever the Batman was calling at his back, he ran for the bathroom, scrubbed the paint off as quickly as he could without reopening the scabs. The last thing he needed was to bleed all over his friend. The scars and the scabs themselves would probably be scary enough. He returned to find Jonny still on the bed, no longer sobbing and muttering much more quietly and slowly, but still very conscious. "Why isn't he out?"

"Because I have no idea how he'll react to these sedatives. They're not the type Arkham uses, and I didn't want him to have a bad reaction, or too sudden of a drop in blood pressure, so I didn't give him a full dose." The Joker took hold of Jonny again, after shrugging off the coat. Bats stood, ran a hand through his hair again, sighed. "I can't believe I'm doing this."

"Doing what?" His stomach gave an unpleasant lurch, all the more unsettling because he really liked surprises, under normal circumstances.

"God. I can't—can you keep him from hurting himself?"

He did _not _like the sound of that. "Why? Where are you gonna be?"

"Getting his antipsychotics."

"_What_?!" This was falling apart faster than a cardboard box in the rain. He couldn't be serious, could he? "Why don't you just take him back to Arkham? It'd be safer."

"I _can't_, that's why."

Unbelievable. "You're putting your secret over his security? Some hero." Damn, this had been an idiotic plan. How could Jonny have agreed to this?

Bats looked as he was going to shout, then gritted his teeth. "Look. I'm sure this is hilarious to you—" that hurt more than it should have—"but I need you to keep him safe until I get back, all right? God, I can't believe I'm trusting _you _with this."

As if he was going to leave his friend alone in the Bat mansion. Well, he might have, if not for this stupid stomach-clenchy thing, but still. Bats was awfully judgmental, for someone who was supposed to be a protector to all. "I'll watch him."

"_Don't _let him hurt himself."

"I won't."

"I'm locking the door."

"Okay."

And then he stepped outside, taking care not to slam the door, leaving the Joker behind with a broken scarecrow, a failed plan and no way out, aside from degrading himself. "Not a very good day, is it?" he asked Jonny, stroking his hair with the hand that wasn't keeping his shoulder pinned to the bed.

Jonny only stared, looking as though he couldn't decide whether to be confused or afraid. So he couldn't recognize him without the paint. Good to know. "Let me up…"

"Can't. Sorry."

"Please…I'll be good…I can't breathe, let me up, I can't breathe."

"Yes, you can." He shifted his weight so less of it was on Jonny. "Come on, relax. You're tired, aren't you? Try and sleep."

"I…can't." Jonny hadn't quit crying completely, though he was down to only a tear or two a minute. "It's not safe."

"Sure it is. What are you afraid of, birds?"

Jonny gave the loudest whimper he possibly could under the drugs, which the Joker took as a yes.

"Well, they can't get you if you're under the blankets. Everyone knows that." He stroked Jonny's hair again. "Wanna get under the blankets?"

He shook his head, clinging onto the Joker. "Can't move, it's not safe, they see you if you move. It's not safe. I can't. I can't move."

"Okay. That's okay. They can't get through me, either."

The Joker wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, with Jonny cowering and hugging tight enough to be suffocating, and with himself trying to be comforting. Comfort and the Joker were not things that went together well. Less like peanut butter and jelly and more like water and magnesium phosphate. It was one thing to be comforting to Harley when he'd just stomped on her fingers or something, all that took was a hug and a kiss. She didn't even expect an apology anymore, and hadn't since two weeks or so after becoming his psychiatrist.

Comforting someone who was a few clowns short of a circus, however, was decidedly less simple. It was all very well and good to tell Jonny that the birds couldn't get him, but when he was having hallucinations that seemed to be telling him the exact opposite, and no matter how often or how clearly the Joker explained that he was hallucinating, it didn't make the slightest difference. He considered knocking Jonny unconscious more than once, but he figured Bats would consider that 'hurting.' The Joker would consider it humane, but seeing as how Jonny was more than likely working himself into shock already, Batsy may have a point about sudden drops in blood pressure.

It wouldn't have made such a difference if he could just bring himself not to care. But as much as he told himself he didn't—about as often as he told Jonathan what he was seeing wasn't real—he couldn't stop that feeling that had spread from his stomach to the rest of his body. It was something he couldn't remember ever feeling before. Almost like he wanted to apologize, though there was nothing to apologize for. Though it was all Batman's fault that Jonny wasn't back at Arkham this very moment, doped up to the eyeballs and being comforted and snuggled by every other villain currently incarcerated. And yet he was struck with the urge to, if only in the hopes that saying it would make this stupid feeling go away.

He didn't. He had too much control over his body to stoop that low, and besides, it was apparent that Jonny wouldn't understand a word of it anyway.

It was also apparent that Jonny was burning through the sedative far faster than normal.

The Joker assumed it was faster than normal, anyway. It wasn't as if there was a clock, but he had a fairly good sense of time, and it couldn't have been more than an hour, if that. But the crying had kicked back up, and the muttering faster. He'd also started struggling more.

"Let me up, I need to stop this, I have to make it stop, if I can't stop it I'll lose it forever, let me up, _let me up_."

"I can't, Jonny. You know that, right? Somewhere in there?" He wanted to hug him, if only to quell his increasingly strong attempts to force the Joker off—it seemed insanity increased strength—but he got the feeling that if he let go for even a second, something bad would happen. "Bruce is gonna stop it, okay? He'll be here any minute now. But you have to stay still."

"I need to get up, let me get up, I can stop it if I get up, _please _let me stop it."

The Joker thought of Jonny's scars and got a pretty good idea of how he'd stop it. "I can't let you up. I'm trying to keep you safe, all right?"

"Please." He closed his eyes, tears sliding out, and when they opened again there was that brief flash of clarity he'd had before. He stopped struggling, staring up at the Joker imploringly. "Can't stay like this. I can't."

The Joker gave an inward sigh of relief, easing the slightest bit of his weight from his friend. "You don't have to stay like this. Bruce is going to fix everything for you, I promise. But you have to lay down for a little bit longer first."

"I can't. I _can't_."

"Just a little bit. Okay?"

"…'Kay." And the moment the word had left his mouth, he shifted, fist slamming into the Joker's face.

For such a tiny person, he punched _hard,_ likely due to a mix of desperation and psychosis. Beautiful pain radiated outward from the Joker's jaw, but that was secondary to the fact that Jonathan had hit hard enough to knock the Joker off of him. Knock him off of the bed, in fact. He caught a blurred glimpse of Jonathan scrambling off of the bed as he fell, then hit the carpet, scraping his palms ever so slightly against the tightly textured surface.

He pulled himself to his feet, vaulted over the bed. He could only have been down for a few seconds.

But, as it turned out, that few seconds was long enough for Jonathan to have pulled the plug of the cell phone charger from the socket. Long enough for him to have pulled back his left sleeve to the elbow, and long enough for him to have shoved the prongs of the plug against the skin of his forearm and dragged them forward, creating two parallel gashes. For a moment, the skin only looked red and irritated. Then the cuts blossomed with blood, blood that dripped down the rest of his arm and to the carpet beneath.

Shocked, the Joker knelt before him, making no move to take the makeshift weapon until he'd assessed the damage. The cut didn't look bad, but it was bleeding horribly, and for once the blood disturbed him. Still, it wasn't nearly as disturbing as Jonathan's expression, the most serene smile he'd ever seen.

* * *

AN: Ergot is a fungus that can affect things like straw and wheat, and can produce effects similar to LSD when consumed. There's a theory that the accusations leading to the Salem witch trials were caused by ergot hallucinations.

Dr. Kevorkian created a process for assisted suicide.

Magnesium phosphate ignites in water.

I assume it's possible to raise blood with the prongs of an electrical plug. Pushing down on my arm with moderate force was enough to leave raised marks for a good five minutes or so. The things I do for research.


	49. Thankless Job

AN: So I may be getting a new kitten tomorrow, which could impede the updateness. Sorry.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Given the Joker's line of work, and the type of person the Joker was, he'd seen more than his fair share of disturbing sights in his life. Sometimes the things people did to each other, sometimes the things he did to people, and sometimes the things his mind came up with, among other sources. The sight of someone cutting himself and looking happy about it shouldn't have been disturbing enough to stand out; the Joker enjoyed pain himself, albeit never the self-inflicted kind. It didn't hit the top ten most disquieting things he'd ever seen, or even the top twenty.

But it did make that feeling unbearably worse.

Theoretically, it shouldn't have. Jonathan was happy at the moment. Over half a dish short of a casserole, but happy, which meant he might not be working himself into a stress-induced heart attack, and the cut wasn't deep enough to be threatening. Bats wouldn't be happy, but Bats deserved it, both for leaving them without fully sedating Jonathan, and for not taking them back to Arkham in the first place. Him and his stupid secret. If it wouldn't get Bruce Wayne killed, Joker would go around spraying painting the truth about Batman onto every available surface and person in Gotham, after he got out of here. Stupid rich bastard, thinking only about himself.

"Jonathan?"

Jonathan looked up, and though he was still smiling, his voice was flat. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

His clarity while sitting there bleeding and nearly giggling to himself was uncomfortably creepy. Maybe knocking him out was a wise choice of action, after all. "No." The Joker inched forward, wondering how to get the cell phone charger away from him; his hands gripping the cord so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. He'd all but stopped twitching. "It wasn't."

"Not going back, are we?" He seemed to sense, even through the haze of euphoria and the insanity that lingered through the pain, what the Joker was thinking and shuffled backward, getting more blood on the carpet. The Joker couldn't imagine that the butler would be pleased.

"I…" Was he stable enough to pick up on a lie? "I don't think so. Bat—Bruce Wayne, when he found out, he—how much do you remember?"

"Know what's funny?" Jonathan asked, absently wiping at the blood with the back of his opposite hand. "I can't help but notice it. Every time you and I work together, I'm the one that gets hurt. You noticed that?"

"Jonathan. Can I see the charger?" He held his hand out, slowly, and Jonathan responded by moving backward again, until he was against the bed with nowhere else to go.

"No." He'd started digging his nails into the cuts. The Joker assumed the pain was beginning to wear off. "I need this."

"I know." He wondered if moving forward would make Jonathan bolt. Not that he could get far, but further agitating him wasn't a good idea. Which meant it would probably turn out to be necessary. "But if that breaks from getting pushed too hard or something, I won't be able to charge the phone. And if I can't charge the phone, I can't make calls, and then we—I'll get in trouble. You don't want that, right?"

"We're in a mansion. They've got phones." Jonathan had started twitching again, raking the prongs back over his arm. And now the emotional weirdness was accompanied by a sense of nausea, and more of whatever the feeling was to begin with. The Joker found himself kind of wishing he hadn't made fun of Jonathan's scars back at Arkham. Back then, when he hadn't had to watch it, it had been hilarious. Now, it was like watching someone trapped under ice, struggling to break through even though it couldn't be clearer that there was no escape. Which also should have been funny. It wasn't.

_Damn Batman. _This was his fault, leaving them here. The Joker shouldn't have to deal with the messes that sprung up after he enacted a plan. That was for other people, either Bats or those that didn't matter. The victims weren't important, unless they served as a tool for manipulation. If they didn't, he was above giving them regard. Until now. Knowing Batsy, he'd probably figured out the scheme and decided to take his time getting back, as punishment. He was certainly enough of a dick, as that whole darkness thing that the Joker couldn't remember seemed to have proved. How long could it possibly take to get drugs, anyway? "Yeah…but I don't want you to hurt yourself. I don't like it."

"Your fault. You promised this wouldn't happen. You promised."

"I know." He slid forward, as much as he could slide on carpet. Jonathan was too distracted with hacking himself up to notice. "I didn't mean for it to; I thought he'd take us back."

"Doesn't matter. You promised."

"I know. Right now I'm trying to keep from breaking that promise, uh, any more." He held both hands out, palms up. "Can I just see where you're hurt? Only for a second. I won't try anything."

"No." Jonathan hugged his hand to his chest, completely uncaring that he was staining the fabric with blood. And somehow that managed to be the most uncharacteristic behavior the Joker had seen all day. "I need it to hurt."

"Yeah, I know. But it hurts now, doesn't it?"

He blinked, eyes looking slightly clouded. He wasn't hurting enough, it seemed. So the disorientation returned before the horrific terror and hallucinations. That could be helpful. "What?"

"It hurts right now. Even if I could stop you from making it worse, I can't keep those cuts from hurting. I just want to see, that's all. Okay?"

"I—" He looked more than a little clouded now, and the Joker found he was able to reach out and take Jonathan's wrist without a violent reaction, only a fruitless pull away. He wasn't as strong when he was somewhat grounded.

The Joker ran his fingers over the injuries, careful not to push down. The last thing he needed was Jonathan regaining more 'lucidity.' They weren't severe enough to pose any health risks apart from possible infection, and he wasn't about to trying bringing Jonathan anywhere near a bathroom in his state to wash the cuts out. Jonathan started to shake harder, trying to bring his nails down on his arm as the Joker pushed his hand away. "Don't."

"I _need _to."

"No." The Joker darted forward and grabbed him by the waist before he could respond, ignoring the kicks and punches hammering on his body. "You need to lie down."

"You promised! You _promised_."

"And I didn't break that promise." The Joker forced him to lie down, pinning him once again. This time he ensured that Jonathan was held too tightly to pull away or hit. "I said I just wanted to look. I just looked. I never specified what I'd do after."

Jonathan, having resumed sobbing, didn't answer.

"Come on, Jonathan. Jonny." Nothing. "Kitten. Scaredy cat. Angel. Princess." Potatoes were more responsive than this. "It's okay, Jonathan."

"Liar. You said it would be over fast. I wouldn't get hurt. I'm scared and it hurts and I can't even fix it. It hurts."

The Joker guessed that he wasn't talking about the pain he seemed to crave so desperately. "It's not really hurting you, all right? The birds and stuff, they're not real. Your mind's just playing tricks on you."

"It _hurts_." He writhed in the Joker's grasp, trying to find a way to scratch or bite at himself or whatever else he could conceive of. The Joker tightened his hold until it began to be painful.

He considered telling Jonathan that scarecrows, lacking a nervous system as they did, couldn't really be hurt, but as this scarecrow could bleed, he doubted it would help. Or that Jonathan could even comprehend the nervous system in this state. The whole scarecrow thing did give him an idea, however. "Jonathan. Listen to me, okay? This is important. Are you listening?"

He didn't answer, but he wasn't muttering either, which the Joker decided meant yes.

"Good. Do you know why the birds are trying to hurt you?" He ignored Jonathan's moan at the mention of the animals and went on. "It's because they're afraid of you."

"Nothing scares them. They find you and hurt you, and there's no way to stop them. No way. They just scratch and tear until there's nothing left, and—"

"Shhh," he whispered, letting go of Jonathan just long enough to graze one hand over his lips. "Yes, they are. It's because you're a _scare_crow, Jonathan. And birds are always afraid of scarecrows."

"They're not. They tear out their straw and pull out their eyes and rip until nothing's left—"

"Because they know the scarecrow will keep standing, no matter how much damage they do." True, he'd never actually seen a scarecrow in the real world, not that he could remember, and as such was just spewing complete bullshit, but he figured Jonathan was too traumatized to realize that at the moment. "It doesn't matter how much damage the scarecrow takes, or how much straw falls out. As long as that scarecrow is still hanging from his pole, he'll be there to do his job. The birds can't really hurt him, and they know that. That's why they attack the scarecrow to begin with. They're trying to make him lose his resolve, but they never will. He's too strong for that." He raised his hand again, wiped tears from Jonathan's face. "_You're _too strong for that. They can't touch you."

"They can. Yes, they can. I'm not a scarecrow."

"Not on the outside." He brushed his hand against Jonathan's temple. "But there's one in here, isn't there? And he's part of you, so that makes you a scarecrow, too. And that makes you safe."

"There's no scarecrow. None. Empty. It's empty."

"What?"

Jonathan only cried, and the Batman chose that moment to finally come back, a bag that had better be loaded with antipsychotics and elephant tranquilizers in hand. "How—" And then he stopped mid-word, taking in the blood on the sheets, the carpet, the scarecrow, and the Joker.

The clown very nearly sat up to explain before he remembered he was the only thing stopping Jonathan from another self-injury, at the moment. "It's—he knocked me over. It's not as bad as it looks."

And speaking of looks, he did _not _like the one that Bats was giving him. It was…well, hard to describe. Not angry. No, he looked too tired to be angry, and his eyes weren't burning with that Bat-light that let the Joker know he was incredibly pissed. They weren't even smoldering, or sparking. Nor did he look judgmental; having dealt with crazed and self-mutilating Jonathan before, the Joker guessed that he knew what it was like. He looked…disappointed?

Yes, disappointed. But not at the Joker. It looked directed back at himself. Like 'Oh, he's bleeding. Well, I guess that's what I get for leaving Crane with the Joker.' It felt bad, to be honest. He wasn't even sure why he cared, much like he wasn't sure why he felt the need to apologize to Jonathan, but he knew that he did. God, this place was killing him. "What kept you?" he asked, voice dripping with discontent, as though that would chastise the Bat, make him feel as scolded and odd as the Joker did.

"Filling a prescription isn't an instantaneous act. Especially when it isn't from a doctor. And I needed sedatives that won't interact badly with the medication."

"You forged a prescription?" the Joker guessed. "Mr. Straight and Narrow has a dark side after all." He bit his lip, vaguely pissed that Jonathan got Bruce to break the law for him. He got all the attention. It really wasn't fair, but the psychosis thing did help to even it out.

"No. When you're a billionaire, you don't need a prescription if you know the right people. But it still takes time when they've got no warning. Give him to me."

_Gladly._ Silent because he was unable to come up with a decently rude or facetious remark in time, he held out his sobbing, broken friend. "Good luck getting him to take anything."

He took him, looking completely lost as to how to begin comforting the man. _Yeah, you and me both, Bats, _the Joker thought, almost sympathetically. "Jonathan."

By this point, Jonathan had stopped thrashing, apparently too out of it to remember that hurting himself would make things clearer. He was still wailing and twitching at full force, though.

"Jonathan." Entirely awkwardly, and rather cutely, he ran a hand over the scarecrow's back, as if that would possibly calm him down. "You're all right. Nothing's going to hurt you. I promise."

"If promises were trees, the world would be a forest," Jonathan said, singsong, in a rare flicker of lucidity before falling right back into the madness. "Promise break, and they hurt. They hurt just like everything else, and they leave you alone—"

"Shh. I want to help you. Will you let me help you?"

Jonathan gave him a look that was every bit as distrustful as it was crazed. The Joker couldn't help but feel a sense of relief at the knowledge that Bats wasn't some miracle worker the scarecrow would instantly trust. Batsy, after all, had made the mistake of leaving them, so it wasn't as if his hands were clean here. This was his fault, really.

"I got you medicine. The kind you had before they changed it, the kind you like. And it will make the things scaring you go away, if you take it. Do you think you feel well enough to try it?"

He shook his head, mouth shut as tightly as it would go. So he was paranoid on top of everything else. Loverly.

"All right. I'm going to give you something that will make you sleep, in that case. Nothing can get you when you're asleep, either." He glanced to the Joker, hand disappearing into the bag. "Roll his sleeve back."

Jonathan reacted to the sight of the syringe as if it was a cattle prod, struggling as if his very life depended on it. "Don't! Don't hurt me, you don't have to, don't!"

"I'm not going to hurt you." Bats uncapped the syringe as the Joker forced Jonathan to keep his arm immobile, squeezing the plunger to force out the air. "This is going to help. It won't be bad. It only takes a second."

As usual, the comforting had no effect, and Jonathan fought right up until the needle went in, halting the instant Bats pressed down, stopping when half of the syringe's contents were injected.

"What are you—"

Batsy held up his free hand to silence the Joker, watching Jonathan, whose eyes had gone from alarmingly wide and fearful to half-closed, and showing a drugged glaze. "See? That wasn't bad, was it?"

"…No." It looked as if he was having trouble even remembering the word. Certainly he was struggling to say it.

"How do you feel?"

"Tired…"

"Ah." The needle was still in his arm, the rest of the dose left to be administered. What the hell was Bats up to, fucking around with a psychotic's drug levels?

"Tired…can't sleep…" Oh, so he was stuck in that hideous level of tranquilizers that made him so relaxed he could barely stand it, but still alert enough to stay conscious. Wonderful. Batman was amazingly sadistic, it seemed.

"I can help you sleep. But do you think you can do something for me first? I just need you to take a couple of pills." To the Joker, under his breath, he added, "Get the meds and water bottle from the bag."

Ah. So not a sadist, then, just a magnificent bastard.

"Yeah…"

"Okay. Here." He somehow managed to get the lid off the bottle one handed, placing two pills in Jonathan's palm and raising his hand to his mouth for him. The pills slipped in, followed by water, and just when the Joker was beginning to wonder if Jonathan might not choke, he swallowed.

"Good job," Bruce said, pushing the plunger the rest of the way and sliding the needle out. "You can sleep now."

He was already out.

* * *

AN: "Loverly" is from the song "Wouldn't It Be Loverly" in _My Fair Lady._


	50. Blood

AN: So no kitten yet, but the hunt continues. Sorry about the delay. Two useless facts about me for the day: Somehow, I'm now a bank teller, despite the fact that I can't even add double digits without counting off on my fingers, and apparently, I'm a character in a Quentin Tarantino film. I say this because I went to give blood yesterday and it shot out. Literally shot. They had to clean off not only my arm up to three inches around the needle site, but also the surrounding table/mattress/thing.

There's a gory moment of this chapter, in the second paragraph in Jonathan's point of view, and sorry if I gross anyone out. I didn't think it was too bad, but I'm not all that easily disgusted, so I thought I'd offer a head's up.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Jonathan Crane was not, Bruce knew, in any danger of exsanguination. Though he'd bled all over the room, the cuts on his arm were barely bleeding at this point, and might have scabbed over by now if not for the struggling he'd put up in the Joker's grasp. Crane was pale, but not the stark whiteness of someone bleeding out. His paleness looked more ailing than fatal, like he'd been sick. Which Bruce realized he must have been, and that he was an idiot for not realizing that before. It wasn't as if a person could go off medications like that without suffering severe withdrawal.

Which the Joker must have known, now that he thought of it. It wasn't as if he could share a room with the man and miss the symptoms. He had to have realized, if not before Crane had run out, then at least by the point when the fever and shaking and God only knew what else had started. The act of 'innocent prisoner who just happened to wake up with his friend tearing himself to shreds' was fake. What had he been trying to gain from it?

"So…how long is he gonna be out?" the Joker asked, staring at Crane as though he couldn't decide whether or not to touch him. The Joker looked strangely pale as well, though that was probably just the shock of seeing him without the makeup. He was pale without it anyway, possibly from hiding his face from the sun for so long, his freckles faint. Even his eyebrows and lashes were blond. The only real colors on his face came from the scabs, the reddish scar tissue, and his eyes.

"Until tonight, at least." Bruce kept his eyes on the Joker, as the clown continued to stare at Crane. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, along with another expression that Bruce couldn't read. Disappointment, maybe. Had this been a plot of his? And for what?

"How much did you give him?"

"As much as I possibly could without hurting him."

The Joker ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, as if he was tasting the information. And had concluded that he didn't like it. "You're gonna keep him under until the meds kick back in? He does have to, uh, eat, you know. Even if he is a scarecrow."

"I'm not going to keep him unconscious." Bruce supposed he'd be keeping Crane moderately sedated until the medication built back up to the necessary levels. However long that took. "But it seemed like the best idea at the moment." Certainly he preferred sitting here with a sleeping madman in his lap as opposed to a conscious, thrashing one. He'd much rather have the man back under the care of Arkham and out of his life all together, but he couldn't risk it. Crane had no control over what he said in this state, and if he let the truth slip, it would only take one person to believe it and dig deeper, and then he'd be exposed. He couldn't take that chance.

Of course, not taking that chance had resulted in leaving Crane here, where he'd slashed himself open. True, it wasn't serious, but it easily could have been. What had Bruce been thinking, leaving him with the Joker and actually expecting him to be all right? He should have been better prepared for an event like this. Batman couldn't afford not to be prepared, not ever.

The Joker cleared his throat, and Bruce looked up. "Granted, I'm not an expert on hygiene—it's overrated, if ya asked me—but shouldn't that get, uh, cleaned out?" He pointed to Crane's injuries, still bleeding—though much more lightly than before—and staining Bruce's pants. He didn't think he'd ever figure out how such fairly minor cuts on such a small person could produce so much blood. True, there weren't massive puddles of red anywhere, but he had bled over a fair amount of the bed and the surrounding carpet, which would almost certainly stain, especially given that Alfred had said he wasn't cleaning up after the villains. So it would linger; a constant reminder of the stupid mistakes and oversights on his part. Lovely.

Well, there was no point in getting worked up over it now. The important thing was to deal with the cuts before he could get another case of sepsis to deal with. He stood, bringing Crane with him, along with the topmost blanket, which he draped over the unconscious doctor and used to apply pressure to the wound. The fabric was already stained with blood, and he supposed its less-than-sterile condition wouldn't cause any major problems, given that he was on his way to disinfect the cuts.

The Joker trailed behind him, silent for once. Bruce would have expected at least one smart remark, or any attempt to destroy the mansion as he walked, or something, but the clown only followed, either staring at Crane or at the floor each time Bruce looked back, with that odd expression on his face. He'd definitely been planning something. What was it he'd said when he pushed Crane into Bruce's arms earlier? It had been something about getting the Tumbler and taking them back to Arkham. He'd wanted a way out? And Crane running out of pills—he must have run out, there was no way he'd have done that willingly, Joker or not—would have provided a perfect opportunity to get away, without looking as if he was running off. If the situation hadn't been so morbid, Bruce might have laughed. It gave him an entirely inappropriate sense of relief; the knowledge that he'd somehow unnerved the Joker into wanting to leave put him back on solid ground.

Of course, all he had to do was look at Crane again for the relief to vanish, remembering just how miserable the next few weeks were going to be. Even if they could keep him sedated during that time, they'd still have to drag him around like a life-sized talking doll. And Bruce still had no idea how he was going to deal with this situation, how he was going to get them out of his home without being exposed. He only knew that he had to find a way, because he wasn't going to be able to put up with this for much longer before he broke.

* * *

The blood stains were still on the carpet.

They were faint, as the whole hydrogen peroxide, water, and salt combination the Joker had suggested—he knew how to hide blood when he had to and for whatever reason, Batsy hadn't made his butler do it—had worked pretty well, but they must have gotten nicely set in during the time it took to fix Jonny up and get the cleaning supplies. The dark maroon color of the half-dried blood had become a faint, faint brown against the white of the carpet, like an entire bath full of water with one teabag in it, so light one wouldn't pick up on it without actively looking.

The Joker was actively looking, attempting to play a game of connect-the-dots with the stains. He wasn't sure if they'd form anything, but searching for a picture that may or may not exist seemed a better way to pass the time than staring at Jonny. He needed to get over this weird feeling—he was sure the Batman had picked up on it, and that was the last thing he needed—and staring at the cause of it would most definitely not help matters. It was like trying to get rid of an afterimage in the eyes by staring directly at the sun, only less amusing.

Beside him on the bed, there was a faint moan. He ignored it. From all the blood stains he could see—and there were less now, as Bats had switched the sheets—they sort of made the shape of a duck. Or perhaps a house. Could go either way, really.

It was, according to his cell phone—and the charger still worked, once he'd cleaned the blood off—a little after seven, meaning sooner or later, Jonny was going to need another injection of happy juice or whatever he was pumped full of. Giving the faint moans he was making more and more often, the Joker supposed it would be sooner. He should probably take Jonny and find Bats, then. Well, he'd do it whenever Jonny started to actually move. For now, his mind seemed to be waking up, but his body remained still.

Maybe the stains didn't form a house or a duck after all. On further reflection, it might have been a spider.

He needed a new way out, since Bats had gone and ruined this plan. He was going to go insane if he was stuck in this mansion for much longer, with the boring white walls and beige carpets and Batman's utterly human alter ego which somehow still managed to make him uneasy. Even his clothes were dull now, as those that Jonny had put on him in an attempt to recreate his standard outfit were being washed to remove the bloodstains. So now it was jeans and some shirt that was so boring he couldn't stand to give it proper look, with the purple coat over top of them. It looked awful. How could a man thought of as such a socialite have such lackluster fashion sense?

The Joker made a mental note to start targeting high society once he broke out, either in supplement to his scheme to kill Bruce Wayne, or as a side goal. Anybody boring enough to walk around thinking that suits and cocktail dresses and black and white were the height of fashion deserved to taught the error of their ways in the most violent and expressive matter he could think of. Maybe he could take a news crew hostage at the same time, and do the whole thing in _What Not to Wear _style. But with more blood.

He was still staring down at the duck/house/spider/dump truck three minutes later, when he heard the faintest of movements to his side. Lovely. And now the Joker would have to deal with him, soon, or he'd wake up halfway to Batsy's room screaming bloody murder in a way that should be funny as hell but wouldn't be, for whatever reason. He didn't feel nearly so weird when Jonny was asleep. He'd asked Bats if he couldn't just have the sedatives on hand so he wouldn't have to go dragging Jonny around each time he started to wake up, but apparently that would be unsafe. Shove a syringe into a nurse's eye once and everyone assumes you'll do it every time you get your hands on a needle. Honestly. People were so paranoid. "Jonny."

Another movement.

He sighed. "Can't ya just…stay asleep?" It wouldn't be that hard, would it? He'd lost a lot of sleep during the vomiting fits, and all the stress from this morning had to be catching up with him. But apparently, that would just be too easy, because Jonny moved again. Great.

With another sigh, he turned around, picking Jonny up bridal style before making his way to the door that, for once, wasn't locked. "Just have the decency to stay out 'til we get there, okay?" He realized he'd neglected to take in the blood stains on this side of the room, making the stains connect to more of a telegraph than anything else.

* * *

Someone turned over his wrist, examining the bandages on his arm, and a crow landed there, biting at the back of Jonathan's hand.

The skin broke easily, blood running from the point of impact. It hurt, but somehow the hurt didn't seem to register as badly as before. Likewise, the fear didn't seem as intense, trapped behind a haze of relaxation, and he was too tired to even try pulling away from the crow. The bird moved its head downward, bit again. This time, when it came back up, there was a far amount of sinew in the beak, as well as a cephalic vein. The vein snapped, when the bird pulled back far enough, and he watched with a subdued mix of fear and fascination as the blood exploded from the area, shooting as if it would from an artery.

Whoever was holding him lowered his hand again, moving the wound and the crow out of sight. What fear he was able to feel faded slightly. The part of him that could still be rational, a very tiny part near the back of his mind where Scarecrow's voice used to be, told him that he should be grateful, or at least relieved, but more than anything he wanted to sleep.

"Jonathan."

The voice, whoever it belonged to, was painful to hear; less of a voice and more of some sort of grating, drillish sound that somehow was forming words. But at least he could understand it. Earlier today people's voices had kept collapsing into incomprehensibility. The person he took for the owner of the voice leaned over him, dark haired with eyes that seemed to glow. The fear picked back up, but it was still stuck under the fatigue. He wanted sleep, but it was just out of reach every time he tried to ignore the people over him and close his eyes.

"Jonathan. I have medicine that you need to take."

He wondered, vaguely, if it would knock him out, as this person was pressing was what felt like pills into his hand and helping him raise it to his mouth. He looked away—never before had moving his eyes been so exhausting—to avoid seeing his injured hand, or the crow that might still be there. There were still dull flashes of pain all over, which he took to mean that he was still being pecked, but as long as he didn't look, it wasn't so scary.

Jonathan glanced at the other person sitting on the bed, who almost looked like the Joker, with greenish hair that seemed to snake around, like a gorgon's, and marks on his cheeks. The marks alternated looking like gaping, bloodless wounds in his face, like the Joker's, and something moving around under his skin, like a parasite. But it couldn't have been the Joker, because his face wasn't nearly white enough, or bloody enough, and his eyes glowed like those of the person holding Jonathan, rather than being black and empty like the Joker's.

Whoever he was, he was holding a glass of what had looked like water when Jonathan first glanced at it, then blood, and now, as he was bringing it to Jonathan's lips, was clear and bubbling and somehow reminiscent of acid. Jonathan tried turning his head away, but he didn't have nearly the energy to do it, and anyway, the person holding him was now gently holding his head in place.

So he drank, and it burned on the way down, but not nearly as badly as he'd thought acid would feel.

The hands left either side of his face, and almost at once, he found himself missing the touch. It had hurt, as all contact seemed to right now, but under the hurt there had been warmth, and a reassurance, a sort of anchor amidst the vortex of chaos that made up the rest of the room, what with the murder of crows swooping around, looking as though they'd dive if not for this person over him, blocking them.

There were voices above him again, but he couldn't make them out. The words had slipped into incomprehensibility again, sounding more harsh and mechanical than anything human. He didn't care either, whatever they were saying. At the moment, lying here was all right. It hurt and he was still as frightened as he could be beneath the exhaustion that he couldn't seem to sleep to satisfy, but beyond that, it could have been worse.

The person holding him was warm and grounding, and while he had no idea who either of these people were, they didn't seem to be hurting him, aside from the acid. He felt—well, safe wasn't something he could feel like this, but something near safe. In the same solar system, at least. He was very faintly reminded of the teddy bear from his childhood which, while being far too small to ever hold him, had still been an anchor against nightmares and the horrors of his waking life.

Then there was a voice that he could understand again, saying "C'mon, Jonathan," and he felt himself lifted out of this person's arms, carried by the other person, who was wearing far too much purple and reminding him too much of the Joker for him to be at all comfortable with.

Too tired to shout, he tried reaching back to the person still on the bed, but found that he was also too tired to move more than an inch or so. Resigned, he closed his eyes, trying to forget the birds he'd just seen clawing bloody gashes into his arm, and decided that the person holding him now wasn't bad either, aside from the purple.

* * *

AN: The cephalic vein (one of them, anyway) is the one running up the middle of the back of the hand.

_What Not to Wear _is a fashion show. A gorgon is the type of monster with snakes for hair, like Medusa and her sisters.


	51. Guilt?

AN: Things not to do on your first (or any) day of work: Accidentally trigger the silent alarm that calls the police. Yeah. Other than that, things went wonderfully.

I may have already mentioned this in a previous author's note, but Abigail is the Joker's tailor from one of my other stories.

Thanks for the reviews, as always!

* * *

It was half an hour or so after Bats drugged Jonny the next morning when the Joker snapped.

All right, so snapped was a bit of a strong word. He was still hanging on, but with all the security of a tooth so loose it was dangling from the socket. And if he had to sit there for another minute, listening to Jonny mutter about crows or moan at unseen horrors or ask for the teddy bear he hadn't had since he was four, the Joker really would snap, and it wouldn't be pretty. So he went in search of entertainment, dragging Jonathan along only because he didn't want to be blamed if the scarecrow somehow injured himself despite the sedatives.

He hadn't brought him, the Joker reflected, because of that stupid feeling. He was all but past that now, barely feeling it. As long as he wasn't looking at Jonny. Or listening to him. It didn't matter. He wasn't about to let himself be dragged into…whatever this was. He was above that, moment of weakness the day prior aside, and the only reason his friend was here now was on account of his generosity.

He came to a stop in one of Batsy's living rooms. He supposed it was a living room, anyway; the Joker had no idea what made a living room separate from a sitting room or a parlor or any of that nonsense. Besides, this mansion was big enough that he could probably explore for a week without running out of rooms—and he'd be tempted to try it, if not for the whole trying-to-escape thing—so it wasn't as if every non-bedroom or non-bath could be its own special snowflake and have a specific name, right?

Well, the name of the room was beside the point. Whatever it was, it had a couch and a TV, and that made it an ideal place to lounge for an indeterminate period of time. He'd have preferred to go banging on the piano again, but Jonny was surprisingly heavy when he was half-conscious, and besides, he couldn't see his friend handling Joker music well in his current state. Not that the Joker cared. He just didn't want to put up with the screaming.

He put Jonathan on the couch, pulled him into a sitting position before getting onto the arm of the couch beside him. Jonny stared forward, muttering something too low for the Joker to hear.

"You know, I'd thought I'd be happy that you'd finally shut up, but, uh, you're not very interesting when you're like a doll."

Jonathan moved his gaze to the Joker, slow as molasses. "Cold."

"What?"

"I'm…cold."

"Oh." The mansion was rather drafty, likely due to its hugeness, but the Joker had never been one to be very affected by temperatures. He was fine in a T-shirt in the snow, and equally fine in a full suit and overcoat in the middle of the summer. Adaptability. Just one of the many skills that made him perfectly suited for his line of work. He shrugged the coat off, pulled Jonathan's hand through one of the sleeves.

Jonny wasn't exactly in a state to pull away, but the moan he gave made it clear that he would have, if he could move.

"What's wrong?"

"It's purple," he said, as if that were the worst thing in the world.

"There's nothing wrong with purple."

"I don't like it." Jonathan's fingers twitched as the Joker pulled his other arm through its sleeve, and straightened the fabric over his shoulders.

"Neither do crows."

He moaned again.

The Joker sighed. "All right, Jonny, I'll let you in on a secret, if you promise not to tell anyone else. That coat isn't purple. It's _violet_."

Jonny considered it. "Same color."

"You'd think that, wouldn't you? But they're not. See, purple is made up of both blue and _red _light. Whereas violet's just a shorter wavelength than blue. Totally different." Which was true, though he had no idea if the coat was violet or purple or orchid or heliotrope or what. He'd have to ask Abigail, whenever he saw her next.

Jonathan didn't seem persuaded by that flawless logic.

"Wanna know another secret?" He ignored the fact that Jonny looked like he wanted to know the secret far less than he wanted the coat off, and continued. "You know the special thing about violet coats? You can't get hurt when you're wearing them. Think about it. When have you ever seen _me _get hurt?"

He didn't look as if he was thinking about it. "Don't…like purple."

The Joker flopped backwards onto the couch, ending up with his head in Jonathan's lap. "I think I'm not going to speak to you until you get your, uh, reasoning skills back. This is the best example of futility I've ever witnessed."

"This is purple," Jonny muttered, staring at his sleeves.

"I know. You've said that, like, three hundred times now."

His friend said something completely unintelligible, except for the last word, which was 'bear.' The Joker took one of the couch's throw pillows and handed it to him as a stuffed animal substitute. Which Jonathan refused to hold. Well, today was just shaping up to be wonderful.

The Joker flipped on the TV. GCN, of course. He might have kept it there if anything of note was going on—though he doubted Jonathan would appreciate it, if Jonny could even focus on the TV at all—but as it was, there was nothing interesting. It was all about the economy these days. He really needed to get back out into Gotham and give the reporters something interesting to discuss. It'd be a public service, honestly.

He flipped the station. Infomercial. Absolutely not. He didn't care if it sliced, diced, grated, peeled, scrubbed, shined, bleached, disinfected, gutted, and vibrated all at once, or even if it came from Germany, he wasn't going to listen to a sales pitch from a man with no indoor voice. He continued to flip through the channels, pausing for at least a minute on each one, no matter how painfully stupid or painfully bad, so Jonathan would have time to register what was going on and give some indication as to whether he liked it or not. The Joker still wasn't sure if the scarecrow was actually watching, but he was looking in the direction of the screen, anyway.

Soap opera. Someone in desperate need of a kidney, or something. No. Paternity testing. No. More news. Nope. A bunch of women sitting around a table jabbering about some inane topic. He'd rather drive spoons into his eyes. That music station that never actually played music. No. What appeared to be _The Twilight Zone. _Well, he'd appreciate it, but he doubted Jonathan would in his panicked state of mind. Some sort of poorly animated show that seemed to be operating on the assumption that kids didn't have an attention span of more than a minute. How insulting. Some old movie with a family sitting in a flying car, n—wait, flying car?

"Ah." Jonathan's fingers did that twitch thing, which as far as the Joker could tell indicated that he wanted to make a movement or statement that was beyond him due to the drugs, or the crazy, or both.

"Want me to stop?"

His head jerked slightly forward, which the Joker took for a nod.

"Okay." He still had no idea what they were watching, or if Jonny had even been responding to him as opposed to something imagined, but if it got the man to stop moaning, he supposed it was worth it. Besides, now there were cannons.

The Joker decided, after a few minutes of alternating between watching the screen and watching his companion, that Jonathan actually was watching it, whatever it was. At least, his eyes were focused in that direction. Which made no sense, now that the Joker thought about it. If he couldn't even look at the walls around him without seeing birds or some such nonsense, how could he possibly look at the TV without having some sort of trip?

Then again, insanity, by its definition, didn't make the damndest bit of sense.

Whatever they were watching, it was weird. They'd somehow gone from flying cars to outlawing children. Well, most movies Jonathan liked were bizarre, going by what the Joker had watched in the week he'd spent at Jonny's house. Like the one with the deformed baby and the erasers, or the fairy tale one where Little Red Riding Hood's wolf had a visible penis for no adequately explored reason. But he hadn't come across any old family movies. At least, not any that weren't musicals.

That thought had just gone through his mind when the singing started. Ah. And now the world made a bit more sense.

That was also when Bats entered the room. "What are you doing?"

"Jonny got bored of lying around."

Batsy stared at the pair of them, and then at the television. "Can he even understand that?"

"He can understand it in his own way."

Batman sat, trying to do that thing in which one watches people without being conspicuous, and failing miserably. He might be able to fight out of the suit, but without the cover of darkness or the element of surprise, he kind of sucked at the whole 'being invisible' thing.

"I'm not about to take him and go dashing off into the sunset, Bats," he said, after watching the man try became embarrassing. "Is it so hard to believe I'm innocently sitting here?"

"Nothing you do is innocent."

He brought his hands to his heart. "That hurts, darling, it really does. You're right, I'm sitting here, letting Jonny wear _my _things and complain at me about how much he misses his teddy bear for some _sinister _purpose. Guilty as charged, Bats. Guilty as charged."

Batman tilted his head. "Complain about what?"

"His teddy bear. That was wrenched from his hands in his youth, never to be seen again. Tragic, really. Or it might be, if he didn't mention it in every other sentence he manages to put together."

Batsy's first expression indicated that he wasn't sure whether or not the Joker was telling the truth, and the subsequent look indicated that he wasn't sure why he even cared. "What _is _this?"

"No idea. But he's enjoying it." He turned his attention back to the screen, only to feel Batman's eyes boring into his skull. "_What_?"

"Why do you care so much?"

"I _don't_." He sat up. "There are exactly three things in this world I care about, Bats, and those would be chaos, myself, and you. And while Jonny might have functioned as Bat Lite during our little fling, he's just not as good as the original."

"If you don't care," Bats countered, "then why did you give him your coat?"

"'Cause I didn't wanna hear him bitch about freezing. Honestly. I know you're into that whole 'goodness in everyone' crap, but I didn't think it applied to me. My motives here are entirely selfish." It wasn't as if giving Jonny the coat had altered that unshakeable feeling in the least, anyway. Not that he cared if it did or not.

"I didn't say you were a good person." He looked disgusted at the thought. Good. "I'll never say that about you."

He grinned, tongue snaking over the scars. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

"But it seems to me that if you didn't want to hear him complain, you'd just leave the room."

"And then get blamed if he burned through the tranqs somehow and opened his wrists on your nice white carpet."

Bats arched an eyebrow, and the Joker found himself longing for that sexy mask with its wonderful ability to block such expressions from view. "Last I checked, you'd _enjoy _be blamed."

He scowled. "Maybe if you'd actually _hit _me anymore. It's just lecture, lecture, lecture with you, and the occasional slam into a, uh, refrigerator. Yeah, that's a real deterrent."

Instead of answering, Bats just looked back and forth from the Joker to Jonny for a moment. "You're not—no."

"No what?" he demanded. It was bad enough that the Bat dared to question his explanations, but keeping him out of the loop was just crossing a line.

"I was going to ask if you felt guilty, given that you must have known he'd run out of pills. Until I realized what a stupid question that was."

_Guilty. _The word struck him in the face like a neon-colored wrecking ball. Was _that _what this stupid, stomach-twisting, sick-making feeling was? Guilt? It was the better than anything he'd been able to come up with—the only thing that came to mind when he'd tried to classify it was the stomach flu—and he supposed it might explain that whole sense of 'I wish I hadn't done that.'

But no. Hell no. Upon another second of thought, there was no way. This wasn't _guilt _he was feeling, because he hadn't done a thing _wrong. _It was Bruce Wayne's fault that they were still here and that Jonathan had gone _Psycho _on his own body, not his. And even if his friend's current state was a direct result of the Joker's actions, that didn't make him _wrong. _It was fine for him to use other people, because he was _above _the rest of the world, except for his Bat. The very implication that he could feel guilt was so stupid, it wasn't worth entertaining.

And considering it made his stomach do that flippy-floppy thing again. He was really starting to hate -that. His eye twitched. "Just _what _are you implying, Bats—"

"Shh."

The admonishment was barely audible, and they both turned to stare at Jonathan, who had yet to look away from the screen. For a moment, they stared, and then went back to watching the film. The Joker found he much preferred trying to figure out why the characters had disguised themselves as dolls during the time he'd looked away as opposed to figuring out if this stupid feeling was guilt.

* * *

AN: The movie they're watching is _Chitty Chitty Bang Bang_. I'm not sure where I got the idea that Jonathan likes musicals, but that one at least has some truly creepy moments, like the Child Catcher. And some are disturbed by the "Doll on a Music Box" scene, though I really like it.

The other movies the Joker mentions Jonathan having are _Eraserhead, _a movie so odd I'm not sure how to describe it, and _Into the Woods, _a musical about the darker side of fairy tales and what happens after happily ever after. _Psycho _is the movie with the famous shower stabbing scene.


	52. Dark Comedy

AN: I'll be at my other job from about noon to ten tomorrow, so I may not update. Sorry about that.

The thing about dead baby jokes comes from my English professor. No idea if it's true.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Bruce wasn't exactly sure when Crane had fallen asleep. But less than a minute after the bizarre film he'd been so fixated on had ended, he'd slumped over unconscious, now lying with his head in his nemesis's lap. Which meant he'd have fallen asleep right as the movie ended. For someone too doped to know his own name, he had good timing.

The knowledge that Crane had no control over his body due to the sedatives and that he'd only fallen on Bruce because he'd been leaning more toward him than the Joker didn't make the situation any less unnerving.

And the Joker's giggling didn't help matters at all.

"Shut up." He wondered if moving Crane would wake him. Probably not, given that there were enough drugs in him at the moment to take down a horse.

"Aw, c'mon, Batsy. Even you've gotta see that this is hilarious."

Bruce regarded the Joker, giving him a distinctly Battish glare. "You find the fact that your friend has to be constantly sedated to keep him from hurting himself funny, after he had a mental breakdown in front of you. Why am I not surprised?"

Of course the Joker only smirked. Bruce hadn't expected any different, even after the hints of what seemed like but could not possibly be remorse. "Never have any fun, do ya? It's called gallows humor for a reason, Batsy. It's meant to lighten a serious situa_tion_, keep those involved from losing it completely. Not that you're exactly the poster boy for sanity yourself."

What, and you are? "There's a difference between gallows humor and just laughing at another person's misfortune."

"Er…no, there's really not." Bruce had never realized exactly how much he hated the Joker's habit of smacking his lips after every other sentence until he had to listen to it on a daily basis. "Laughing at the misfortune of others is the only thing that keeps people with that stupid empathy sympathy thing going, sometimes. Take, for example, a dead baby joke. What's the difference between a hundred dead babies and a Corvette?"

"I don't want to—"

"I don't have a Corvette in my garage," The Joker finished, the words barely out of his mouth before he started laughing at his own joke—a sound bad enough to make Bruce consider leaving the room or deafening himself—only to stop abruptly when he realized that his conscious companion wasn't amused. "Ah, _c'mon_, that one was funny."

"Hardly."

The Joker rolled his eyes. "Did you never learn to speak in full sentences? God, your English teachers must have hated you. Anyway, know who tells the most dead baby jokes, aside from teenagers, and probably even more than them? Abortionists, and, uh, obstetricians. You know, the people who deliver babies?"

"I know what an obstetrician is." He wondered how much of what came out of the Joker's mouth at any given moment was true, and how much was complete bullshit. In circumstances like these, with nothing at a stake, it was better—and much less stressful—to assume it was all lies. Besides, the clown twisted his so-called word as much as humanly possible even when he was telling the truth.

"Right. And they're not being insensitive when they make remarks like that to each other. That's just how they deal with the fact that some of these sweet little bundles of joy they're birthing for these expectant mothers are gonna come out blue and cold, or die a few hours after being hooked up to all the life support insurance can buy. Keeps 'em from falling apar_t_."

"Because you're in so much danger of falling apart."

"Ah ah ah." The Joker wagged a finger in disapproval. "You're putting words in my mouth, Bats. I get enough of that from the shrinks. I never said I needed dark comedy for moral support. All I did was explain why it existed. I happen to use it 'cause I enjoy it. I_ like _comedy, I don't need it. Which is more than can be said for all the humorless stiffs in this city."

So now the man who went dissociative for days after being faced with an alternate point of view was claiming that he didn't have a coping mechanism. It would have been hilarious if Bruce wasn't about to break from all the stress these people had put him under. "I doubt that."

The Joker narrowed his eyes for the slightest of seconds, then smirked again. "You've still got a sleepy scarecrow on your lap."

He glanced down at Crane, holding in a sigh as he lifted him up for the time it took for Bruce to move onto the arm of the couch. Alfred didn't approve of such abuse of the furniture, but then, Alfred didn't have psychopaths sleeping on top of him. And even when the man was drugged to the point where he couldn't recognize the world around him, or put more than five words together at a time, it was impossible to separate Crane from his lucid actions. He wanted to hold him about as much as he wanted the pair in his house to begin with. Which was not at all. He pitied him, yes, but pity and sympathy were two very different things.

Wanting the ex-doctor to not think that he was being torn apart by imagined monsters was a far cry from welcoming him with open arms.

"You know, I think I was onto something about that whole 'treating criminals badly so you get to be nice' thing," the Joker said, with a lip of his lips. "That's kinda sick, Batsy. I'd suggest you talk to someone about it, but seeing as how the only head examiner I'd put the slightest stock in wants a teddy bear more than he wants to deal with other people's problems, I'm afraid you're out of luck." He paused. "Unless ya wanna get on that Dr. Phil show. You've got the money to buy your way on, and all."

Bruce felt his eye twitch, and got that feeling he so often got when talking to the Joker. That feeling that said, 'This conversation is only going to piss me off, and I should really walk away, but I must hate myself that much, because I'm going to go on anyway.' "Last I checked, you're the one who let him get hurt."

"Ooh, _so_ close, but no dice. Sorry, thanks for playing, and take a parting gift on your way out."

"That's not an answer."

"You've got no flair for the art of conversation, honey. I was getting there." He reached out, stroked the bandages of Crane's arm. "Yeah, he hacked himself up on my notice, but here's the thing: He's _your_ captive. You're his caretaker as long as he's in your house."

"You—"

"Ah ah, my turn to talk." He cracked his neck with a sickening pop, continued. "Yes, I'm the one who insisted he come along, but that's beside the point. You're the one who swore to defend this city. And that includes all of the city, even the parts that put burlap or greasepaint on and run around terrorizing and killing the shit out of things. And you've done a pretty awful job so far, if I may be so bold."

"You seem to be enjoying yourself in spite of that," Bruce said, refusing to let himself be baited.

"I also like breaking into apartments to hide under little kids' beds. I don't exactly react in the normal, boring way."

Even when he was admitting that he was out of his mind, he still managed to make it sound like a good thing. If he wasn't so evil, grating, and delusional, it would have been an impressive display of will power. Or egotism.

"But I digress."

"As usual."

"Shush. Really, Bats, now you're just being rude. First, you kept a captive that you knew needed antipsychotics to keep from going batshit, and you completely failed to keep track of whether or not he'd run out of the meds. I know he's a chemist and a drug dealer and all, but even someone as deliciously thick as you must realize that he can't self-medicate using solely the chemicals in, uh, toothpaste and soap."

He didn't respond to that. For once, the Joker was right, though he knew the clown was upbraiding him to get a rise rather than out of genuine disgust. He should have kept a watch on that, and forgetting was no excuse. Batman couldn't afford to forget. There was nothing the Joker could say here that he hadn't already told himself.

The Joker watched for a reaction, scowled when none came. "Ignoring the argument? Real mature, Batsy. Secondly, not only did you let him go miles over the cuckoo's nest, but you also left him alone with me. And expected everything to be fine. Honestly. Why not just leave a cat sitting right next to a steak unsupervised for a few hours, and decide the steak will still be there when you get back? I'd tell you exactly how stupid that was, but I don't think there's a word that adequately covers it."

He gritted his teeth. "Are you through?"

"No response? You're not even gonna try to cover your ass on this? Wow." Another lip smack. "It's not often when you don't have an excuse for your idiocy. I thought that you fully believe in all the crap you do."

"At least I admit my mistakes, instead of trying to dodge responsibility."

The Joker's smile flattened, if only for a second. "Run that by me again?"

"I fucked up. I admit it. I fucked up beyond excuse. But you couldn't even keep a man too hysterical to do anything but sit there and cry from hurting himself."

The Joker's eyes narrowed again, but this time they didn't widen immediately afterward. "I don't have to explain myself to you, Bats."

"And yet you lecture me like you expect me to do just that."

"It's different. Pointing out your failures amuses me. As do your half-assed attempts to rid yourself of the blame by turning this around on me, but I don't expect anything. You could have the world's greatest excuse, and it could be completely true, and I wouldn't care."

"But you care that I suggested some of the blame is yours."

The Joker, even when angry, as he was now, didn't look nearly as intimidating in Bruce's slightly overlarge clothes as he did in his usual suit. Something about the coat gave an impression of size that was visibly lacking without it. "No, I care that you're trying to psychoanalyze me. I get enough of that at Arkham, thanks, and if I wanted Arkham, I would have gone there."

"If you don't like it, you can leave."

"And let some pervert who dresses up in fetish gear have my friend all to himself. No thanks."

Bruce smirked in spite of himself. "I thought you didn't care about him."

"I don't."

"I think you do, and you want to deny it. Or are you too crazy to realize how much you're contradicting yourself?"

"I contradict myself?" The Joker clapped his hands to his cheeks in mock shock, mouth hanging as far open as the scars would allow it to go, as if the subject of Munch's The Scream. That, or Macaulay Culkin. "And you've just won Double Jeopardy. What an observation, Bats, what a truly striking and original insight. I've only said myself that my word means whatever I want. Like a week before you caught me, I set out intending to set fire to a nursing home and ended up taking a stroll through the botanical gardens enjoying an ice cream cone that the vendor was sweet enough to give me for free once he took note of the makeup. And you say I contradict myself. Well, thanks for that, I never would have realized. I think we're making some real progress here, Doc."

"You do know that ranting doesn't make you right, don't you?" He watched the Joker's sneer turn to a scowl, and held back a smile as he continued. "I know you're aware of your contradictions. That doesn't make them any less of contradictions. And it doesn't hide the fact that, while you're perfectly willing to acknowledge the trivial times you go against what you just said or did, you pretend that it didn't happen if it's over something serious."

"Wrong again. I don't take anything seriously, Bats. You oughta try it. It's liberating."

"I think I'd rather be suppressed than crazy."

"I'm not crazy." The Joker's tone and expression would have inspired tears in most.

With Bruce, it just made it impossible to keep from smirking. "You seem to take accusations against your sanity seriously."

The Joker stood, which might have been intimidating if he'd bothered to get off the couch before he did so. Having the clown glare down at him while struggling to keep his balance on the arm of the sofa was hilariously lackluster. "_Listen_, Bat."

"You might want to get down before you fall and crack your skull open—"

"Shut up. Look, I've put up with enough vomiting and crying and screaming and whining and shaking over the past few days to last a lifetime. I've been ignored by the man I came here to see in the first place, and had to put up with his dumbass alter ego who's got all the personality of a glue stick. And not the type of glue you can get high off of, either. I let you kick me when I was down and I broke because of it. Which you never apologized for, by the way."

"You're the one who wanted to come here. You brought that on yourself."

"Right. And a soldier walking onto a battlefield asks to be taken captive and waterboarded and all that."

It was a terrible metaphor, and one that made the Joker seem far more innocent in all of this than he'd ever been, but there was a point, underneath the hyperbole. Bruce never should have pushed that far, anger aside. So he remained silent, and let the madman continue.

"The point is, I've dealt with enough shit from you to fertilize all of the Midwest. And I can handle that, for the most part. I'm _fine_ with that. But there is a point where I draw the line, sweetheart. And I'm drawing it right here. You can hit me or make fun of me or whatever the hell you want, but I will not let you sit here and pretend to understand what goes on in my head."

"I thought I was the only one who did understand you."

"Wrong as usual. You're the only one besides me who matters. That doesn't mean you under_stand_." The Joker gave a short laugh, but there was no mirth to it. "You don't understand a damn thing. I'm the only one who gets it. I'm the one who was smart enough to look in the mirror and realize this whole 'humanity' thing was a bunch of crap. That society's one bad day away from killing itself."

He jumped down to the floor, the impact loud and reverberating. Crane shifted in his sleep.

The Joker pointed at Bruce, continued. "You're the one who's blinded himself to the truth. To the fact that people aren't good underneath it all, and that no matter how hard you hold onto it, or how much Kevlar you put over it, your humanity is slipping. You're not the one that understands. You're the one who needs me to explain things, because I know you better than you know yourself."

Bruce waited until it became clear the Joker was through, when the clown had begun smirking in indication that he thought he'd won. "So, then, how can you know me so well if you don't know a thing about yourself?"

"Excuse me?"

"You don't even recognize your own emotions. You had no idea what guilt was. You block out your past and break down rather than deal with things. You're smart, brilliant even—" that was painful to admit, true as it was—"but just because you're an intoxicating speaker, it doesn't hide the fact that you have no clue about anything except the ideals you try to embody. And you're just as terrified about letting your humanity slip as I am of losing mine."

The Joker stared, for a long, long moment. "What did I just say about trying to analyze me?"

"Is that the only argument you have?"

The clown tensed, and Bruce readied himself to be attacked or at least spat on, but the Joker only picked up Crane and stormed out of the room.__________


	53. Angel of the Morning

AN: Why does the congressman I voted for always show up in town to make speeches when I'm either working or out of town?

Thanks for the reviews! I definitely never thought I'd get to seven hundred, thank you all so much!

* * *

How could the love of his life be such a complete and total bastard?

It was a question he'd asked himself about a million times before heading back to the bedroom—_not _retreating, because Jokers never retreated, just going to collect his thoughts—and he still had no answer. Why did Bats have to be such a jerk? He was supposed to sit there and fail at countering the Joker's observations on life, the universe, and everything, either becoming all the more beautifully hardheaded and in denial or eventually breaking down, realizing the Joker had been right about everything ever, and ravishing him right there on the spot.

He could never decide if that second option would be fantastic or disturbing and a letdown, as it'd be the end of the battles. Either way, it would be hot.

But no, Bats just had to talk back, and act as if he understood anything about the Joker's motivations. Which he didn't. The idea that the Joker felt guilt, or remorse, or any of that crap was so stupid he couldn't even laugh about it. Batman actually believed everything he'd said, it seemed, and that was so far off base that it made the Joker sick. How dare Batsy think the Joker was the pathetic one, that he was the one in denial? It wasn't as if he put on the makeup each night because he couldn't cope with his mommy and daddy getting shot.

He should have gone to the Wayne's graves and defiled them after all. It didn't have quite the same touch as invading Batman's home, but at least it would have provoked the man into such a rage that he'd have been unable to do anything but beat the Joker comatose, or maybe even to death. Certainly, he wouldn't have had the rational thought to make all those irrational arguments.

And then he'd had the nerve to call him crazy.

The Joker was never sure why having his sanity brought into question made him see red, but it did. It was one thing when Jonny or Harley or whoever said it without really meaning it, as a reaction to a statement. Which they did often. They were very lucky that being called mad didn't piss him off in those circumstances. Otherwise, every announcement of 'Hey, let's go dump piranhas in the park's lake' or something that was met with 'Are you out of your mind?' would result in serious injury or death, depending on his mood. It was okay when it wasn't meant seriously.

But when it was, that was a whole new kettle of fish.

Not remembering things didn't make him crazy. Dressing up in his fantastic suit and painting his face did not make him crazy. The fact that he had a different origin in his head for the scars at every other second and knew that all of them were true—at least at the moment—didn't make him crazy. But no one else got that.

He wasn't sure why he even cared if anyone else understood. Other people didn't matter, both because they were uninteresting and because he was light years ahead of them, and they'd never catch up. It was like reading _The Art of War _while the rest of the class was struggling through _Pat the Bunny._ There was no way humanity would ever be able to bridge that gap. Yet it still stung when they called him crazy, when they had the _gall _to imply that they could ever have the intelligence necessary to understand one iota of what went on inside his mind.

And when Bats did that, it took his love, the one who was supposed to be above the rest of the world with the Joker, and made him just like _them_. Unacceptable. Batsy had to be more than just a man, because if he wasn't, the Joker would be truly alone. And the thought that he was the only one in the world who mattered, that no one else could ever reach his level, not matter how close they seemed on the surface, would be enough to push him over the edge, if it turned out to be true. Enough to make him, ironically, every bit as mad as they thought he was.

He got the feeling that if he ever went mad, he'd end up tearing the world apart. It sounded fun, but he'd rather keep his sanity.

And then, just to add insult to injury, Batsy had implied that he still had humanity. Some weak little security blanket the ignorant masses clung to, to hide the fact that deep down, they were all monsters who'd rather kick a person in the face than lend a helping hand. He had no humanity. He didn't want it. He embraced his lack of it. And this stupid twisted sick feeling was not guilt. He'd believe it was swine flu sooner than he'd buy the idea that he was feeling remorse.

Besides, he hadn't done anything wrong. If Bats wanted someone to blame, he had nowhere to point the finger but at himself, for not keeping a closer watch, and at Jonny, for agreeing to all this to begin with. Except that he couldn't pin the blame on Jonny, because Batman was too stupid to have realized that Jonny had agreed to throw away his pills. World's greatest detective? Hardly.

He glared at Jonathan, sleeping on the bed and still wearing the Joker's coat. He was overcome with the urge to kick him, for agreeing to all of this and making the Bat make such stupid arguments. But that would just wake the scarecrow up and he'd probably cry or something, so there was no point. Instead, he dialed the phone and made the noon call.

After that, he took a shower. He stood until the hot water was gone, and for what seemed like hours past that, staring at the tile of the opposite wall without seeing it, and trying to figure out just why being told he was human or insane pissed him off so greatly. He ought to be above it, but ought to didn't change the fact that the Bat's digging little remarks had honestly hurt.

Sometime later—the Joker didn't get the cell phone to check, but it light that came in through the bars and the shades was barely there anymore—he stood in front of the mirror, putting the makeup back on for what seemed like the first time in weeks. Sure, Jonny was liable to freak if he woke up and saw it, but given that the man already thought he was beating eating alive by crows, it couldn't possible make his mental state that much worse. Besides, the Joker didn't really care if Jonny panicked or not. He was more interesting than most human beings, but he was still human. And that made him worthless, deep down.

He ignored the twisted feeling as he painted his face. Once he was chaotic enough while still recognizable as a clown, he went back into the bedroom to reclaim his coat from Jonny. Upon entering, he noticed two things, one before the other.

The first was the fact that the tray of lunch that no one had eaten, that Bats had left sitting on the nightstand, and that the Joker had seen when he'd come out to get his clothes and makeup, was gone, replaced by a quickly cooling dinner that no one was eating. He must have been in the shower for quite a while, then. Come to think of it, the water had been icy and his skin had looked almost bluish when he finally got out, but he hadn't paid much attention to the world outside.

The second thing he noticed, upon sitting down and reaching over to undo the buttons on the coat Jonny was wearing, was that his unconscious friend appeared to be holding a stuffed animal.

A teddy bear, to be precise.

The Joker broke into a much-needed laughing fit that lasted somewhere between half an hour and forty five minutes, to be precise. The good laughter, the kind so deep it hurt the ribs and the stomach to keep up for more than a minute. His body was burning in wonderful agony by the time he did quit, and he only stopped then to keep from crying and having to redo his makeup.

_Damn._ How beautifully, typically Batman. Because giving Jonny a bear was going to do _so _much to help his mental state, or do anything at all besides supremely piss the scarecrow off once he was lucid enough to realize what he was snuggling. And to think that the Joker had believed Bats could have any real insight into his state of mind. He felt better about the world now. If Batsy couldn't even figure out what made Jonny tick, there was no way he understood the Joker. He could just imagine Batman sending his butler out to the nearest Toys R Us.

…_Or not._ Upon further examination, the bear didn't look new. It had all the signs of having been loved by some kid who didn't fully grasp the concept of playing nice, and the Joker could see stitch marks here and there where someone had repaired it. It didn't look as though it had been used in a long time, though. It couldn't be _Batsy's_, could it? The idea of Bats having a teddy bear broke the Joker's mind, just the slightest bit. Well, unless Bats was in the habit of stealing other people's cherished childhood toys, that was the simplest explanation. _God in heaven. _He didn't know whether to laugh again or to cry.

Wait, how did he even still have the bear to begin with? Hadn't this mansion gone up in smoke only a few years ago? What did he do, keep all his old toys in a fireproof safe? It made no sense. Thing again, few things in Gotham did. 'Logic' and 'Gotham City' got along about as well as Germany and France had after World War I.

So Jonny got to lie there and cuddle with Batman's childhood playthings. Well, that was unfair. Some people had all the luck.

The Joker shrugged it off. Giving him the bear was obviously either an attempt at placation or an act of pity, and the Clown Prince of Crime was above wanting either of those things. He went back to undoing the buttons, and pulled the coat off of Jonny with only a bit of struggle. He was sliding it back on when Jonny's beautiful if hazy eyes opened.

And immediately blinked and widened the moment they focused on the Joker.

The Joker's hand was over his mouth before he could scream. "Hey. Hey, calm down. I know I'm scary, but I'm not gonna hurt you. I promise." His words had no effect, so he kept his hand there until Jonathan's eyes finally got that hazy drugged look again. Then he let go, met with only the tiniest of whimpers.

"Joker?" He sounded equal parts confused and frightened.

"Yes, kitten. I'm not gonna hurt ya. Relax."

The look on his face was anything but relaxed, though he was making some effort to focus, through the sedatives and terror. "Joker."

"Yes."

"We…we're still…here."

"I know." Great, the twisting feeling was back. Just what he needed. "Bruce Wayne fucked up the plan."

Jonathan stared at him, then turned his head to look at the bandaged arm wrapped around the bear. It seemed to take tremendous effort, and for a moment he lay there with his eyes closed. Just when the Joker thought he'd fallen asleep, they opened again. "This…wasn't supposed…to happen."

"I know."

Jonathan blinked, eyes going the clearest they had in days, and gave a short laugh without a hint of humor. It made the hair on the back of the Joker's neck stand on end. "Why did I expect any different?" There was no anger in his tone, only what sounded like self-disgust.

"Uh…" And then Jonathan was lost again, fully conscious but more in touch with his imagined torments then the world around him. It was at times like these when the Joker wished he _was _mad, so he could imagine and fully believe that this gut wrenching sensation wasn't caused by emotion, but by some hallucinatory evil, like having his intestines pulled out by some rotisserie-style torture device that doubled as a music box, or something. Jonathan really had all the luck.

This couldn't be guilt. It _couldn't._ He couldn't feel guilt, because that would make him just like everybody else, and being something so mind numbingly normal as a human being would kill him. But whatever it was, it seemed close to guilt, and he didn't like it. He wanted it gone. How did people get rid of guilt? He had no idea. Unless…was that what apologizing was for? To make guilt go away? He seemed to recall watching some kids' show with muppets once upon a time when he was bored that had shoved some moral like that down the viewers' throats.

Well, fuck that. There was no way he was apologizing. He hadn't done anything wrong. He was incapable of doing anything wrong. Even his failed plans were the fault of someone else, like an incompetent henchman or the GPD. He wasn't about to apologize, especially when there was no need to.

Jonathan moaned and clutched the bear tighter, turning away from some imagined horror. The sedatives must be wearing off. Wonderful. And this sick feeling was only getting worse.

_For Christ's sake. Fine. _It was just two words. I'm. Sorry. He didn't even have to mean them. And it would make the pseudo-guilt or whatever it was go away, if he said it. He leaned over and pushed Jonathan into a sitting position, hugging him and ignoring the weak protests to get away. "Jonathan."

"Don't—"

"It's okay, I won't hurt you. Listen to me, all right? This is important." He waited until his friend was mostly focused on him before he continued. "Look, I wish what happened hadn't happened. I'm sorry." God, did those words feel alien on his tongue. He'd said them before, yes, but always either sarcastically or to manipulate. He'd never just out and said it before, and the fact that he didn't mean make it any less strange.

Jonathan stared, eyebrows as furrowed as he could get them to go, under the sedatives. "Why?"

_Ouch. _That really, _really _hurt, and the Joker had no idea why it even affected him. All he knew was that the apology had done nothing to relieve the feeling. What the hell? This wasn't how it was supposed to work. Apologizing meant everything was fixed on either end. Jonathan should have accepted it without question and he shouldn't still feel sick. Well, fuck apologizing, and remorse in general, if this is what it brought.

It occurred to the Joker, as he stared at his friend with this windstorm of confusion and pathetic emotions running through him, that he was losing himself. Coming into the Batman's home wasn't supposed to be like this. Home field advantage aside, the Joker was never supposed to lose the upper hand. He was the one with the ace on his sleeve when everyone else had their cards on the table. He was supposed to break the Bat and then have fun mending the pieces into an exciting new form.

He was _not _supposed to reveal his trump card out of spite, or get sick and lose face—literally—in front of Bats. He wasn't supposed to have crying fits that he couldn't remember and lose sense of himself for days, or accidentally cut himself and have to paint with the blood to calm down. And he definitely wasn't supposed to be stuck in a room with his hallucinating ex and actually feel bad about causing the craziness. This was wrong. It wasn't just that he wanted to leave anymore. He _needed _to.

The Joker couldn't think of a way to answer that 'Why?' beyond, 'You're making me feel bad and I don't like feeling bad, so I want you to be okay with it so the bad feeling will go away.' It was just as well, because Bats chose that moment to come in to drug Jonathan again.

"You've got the paint back on."

The Joker bit back the urge to make a comment about Batsy's observational skills. He didn't want an argument while he was still so bizarrely shaken up over the last one. "Least I could do to balance out your boring clothes."

Bats shot a glance to the scarecrow in the clown's arms. "Crane—"

"Is fine with it. Do you hear any screaming?"

Batman gave him a suspicious glance, then uncapped the syringe. It was the usual method, the lay the Jonathan down on the bed, keep him still so he couldn't break the needle off by thrashing, shove the pills and water into his mouth before he could get too hazy to fall asleep, and good job, Jonathan, feel better, Jonathan, take the pills and needle and Bats goes out the door routine.

The Joker watched his retreating back, waiting until the instant the door closed behind him to turn to Jonathan. Bats was almost surely going out in costume tonight, and the Joker needed to speak with him before he did. Not to mentioned needed to sort out just what the hell was going on in his own mind.

But first there was Jonathan. And for whatever reason, he couldn't just walk out the door and leave him. Not that he could take his friend with him, either. So he settled for leaning down and kissing Jonathan on the forehead. "Bye-bye, angel."

Jonathan only gave his standard confused look in response. "Bye…" It could have been either an echo or a question, the way he said it.

The Joker brushed Jonathan's hair out of his eyes, stroked a hand down his cheek before he got off of the bed. Then he was turning away and heading out the door, quickly, before he could completely lose track of where Bats had gone.

The twisted feeling was strong as ever, and he had no idea what he was going to do or say when he did caught up with Bats, let alone what he was going to do in the long run, but he didn't care. The important thing was to find Batman, and deal with this mess before he could lose himself completely. He'd never been a schemer in the first place, anyway.

* * *

AN: "Angel of the Morning" is a song originally performed by Merrilee Rush and the Turnabouts in the sixties, but covered about a hundred times since then. It's one of my favorite songs, about one-night stands and realizing a lover won't stay, but that's alright as long as the lover will call the singer 'angel' or show some other affection before leaving. My favorite lyrics to the song are the ones used when it's performed by The Pretenders, but I'm a fan of basically every version I've heard. If you've heard Shaggy's song "Angel," (Girl, you're my angel, you're my darling angel, girl, you're my friend when I'm in need) you've heard the tune, though his lyrics are different.

Yes, I know I just turned this total fluff with the bear. I don't even care, Jonathan Crane with a teddy bear is too cute to pass up. _Pat the Bunny _is my favorite book every for very young children. It's interactive, in which the characters do something and the reader mimics it. "Jane pats the bunny. Now you pat the bunny." And then they have an actual furry rabbit you can pet, and such.

The movie _The Cell _has an odd dream-esque sequence in which the male lead has his intestines pulled out by this weird music box-rotisserie machine thing that plays "Mairzy Doats" when the handle is turned. That's the torture instrument I had in mind when the Joker mentioned it.


	54. On the Edge

AN: Sorry about the delay, I got this wonderful (and crazy—so far he's tried to eat his collar, tail, and feet) kitten yesterday, and as you'd imagine, he occupied my time. I'm only writing now because he's sleeping. This is what he looks like, if you're curious: http:// i158. photobucket. com/ albums/ t92/ Lauralot /100_0698. jpg

"Every time I look at you, I don't understand" is a line from _Jesus Christ Superstar._ In the 60s _Batman _show, Bats and Robin got into the cave by sliding down poles that led to it, and in _Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, _Willy Wonka opens a door by playing musical notes on a miniature keyboard thing.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Batman was just disappearing around the corner when the Joker stepped out of the room. He could have caught Bats in the hall had he opened the door faster, and had whatever conversation they were going to have out here, but he hadn't. He'd taken his time in opening the door on purpose, to ensure that it wouldn't make a sound and betray his presence. He didn't want to talk here. The Joker had underestimated the whole home field advantage thing before, and it wasn't a mistake he was about to make again. They'd speak in a location of _his _choosing, wherever that would be. He still had no idea what they were going to talk _about_, but whatever it was, it wouldn't be in the middle of the Bat-mansion.

He took off behind Bats, at the quickest pace he could while still being silent. Contrary to what the average Gotham citizen might think, the Joker was capable of being quiet. Dangerously so. True, it was his preference to make his plans as loud and attention-grabbing as possible, both to attract the Bat and to allow lesser mortals the thrill of witnessing his actions. Not that they deserved it, but then, what was the point of doing something if it didn't get some sort of reaction? There was no end to a successful heist or murder or such like a shaken news anchor talking about the tragedy.

But there were times, such as now, when it paid to be silent, and when the Joker put his mind to it, he was as good at that as anything else he put his mind to. Which was frighteningly good. He knew Batsy couldn't hear him; hell, he probably wouldn't hear him even if he'd been as hyper aware as Jonny's old meds had made him. The Joker stepped around the corner just in time to see Bats turn again, and followed, quiet as before.

He wasn't sure how long they carried on in that manner, only that Bats was none the wiser and remained none the wiser all the way to the parlor—or living room or sitting room or music room or whatever the hell it was called—that housed the piano, the one where Batman hadn't even been impressed by the Joker's musical abilities. Of course, nothing impressed Batsy. He really was a complete bastard.

Except for the part where he gave the Joker's life meaning and was the only other Technicolor person in a world of black and white and occasionally sepia and the only thing that had ever truly challenged the Joker. The immovable object to the Joker's unstoppable force. Even now, years after the night when he'd said that to Bats, after the exhilarating fall and the joy in discovering that Batsy really wasn't going to break his rule, that remained the most apt description of the two he'd ever used.

So then why, if they were so perfect and made for each other, did being here hurt so much?

He watched, hiding behind the doorframe, as Bats pressed three keys on the piano, and the bookshelf opened. And despite the wrenching feeling that he couldn't shake, even after that apology, despite the memories of all the hell he'd been put through in his time here, the Joker still had to clamp a hand over his mouth to stifle his giggles. _He's got a secret door. He's actually got a secret door. A secret door behind a _bookshelf. _Christ on a bike. _It shouldn't have been that funny, but oh how it was. It was like something out of a _Scooby Doo _cartoon. Logically, of course the door would be hidden, but the Joker had never been much for logic. And besides, the laughs had been so few as of late that he'd take anything he could get.

Batman stepped inside, and the Joker strained forward to watch the man's body descend, before the door closed and blocked the view. An elevator, then. Damn. He'd been hoping for some sort of fireman's pole, or something. It would be just ridiculous enough.

_At least, _he reflected, stepping into the room, _he didn't open it by pulling down some secret lever. _That would be irredeemably hilarious. Probably Bats had thought that the piano key would be harder to discover—and the Joker couldn't quit giggling at 'piano key,' either; who was Batsy trying to be, Willy Wonka?—but unfortunately by him, the Joker could play by ear, and he'd heard those notes just fine.

He waited until he felt a reasonable amount of time had passed—elevators made noise, after all, and he didn't want to raise it with Bats still in earshot, before striking the keys, unable to hold back the laughter. He did manage to control himself by the time the door opened, sobering at the thought that somehow, he had to work this mess out, and on his own terms, while still on the Batman's ground.

* * *

It was a bad sign when life as Batman was becoming relatively simpler than life as Bruce.

Not that Bruce Wayne didn't have his own set of struggles before: appearing as a rich playboy with a nightlife when he had anything but and couldn't afford to drink before patrolling, arranging dates with beautiful women that he knew wouldn't and couldn't continue—and many of those women _didn't _know that, or refused to accept it—running his company on the absolute minimum amount of sleep day after day. If it wasn't for Lucius, Wayne Enterprises would have fallen completely apart, and if it wasn't for Alfred, Bruce would have fallen completely apart.

Still, Bruce Wayne didn't find himself on the wrong end of a gun nine times out of ten, have dogs set loose on him, or have to deal with madmen intent on destroying him. At least, not until recently. Batman put up with that sort of thing on a nightly basis, and it was a rare night to find him not bloody or bruised under the Kevlar. He'd be hard pressed to make an argument that Batman didn't have the more difficult job.

But Batman, at least, only had three driving factors. Stop evil. Protect Gotham. Don't kill. Bruce had all the humanity that his symbol of an alter ego lacked, and it made keeping the villains here that much harder. Batman had no problem beating the Joker into submission, and while Bruce was the same person—Batman wouldn't even exist without Bruce's decision—somehow, punching someone senseless weighed harder on the mind without the Kevlar and mask. It was taking his work home with him, in the worst possible way.

He ran over his options as he latched the armor plates together. Ideally, both rogues needed to be returned to Arkham—and preferably medicated into incoherency—but that left his secret as open as it could get. The Joker might not tell, given his violent reaction to _himself _knowing the truth, but he could never be sure of the clown's motivations. And Crane, once he regained most of his mind, Bruce could easily imagine telling, if only out of spite.

There was the possibility of blackmail. It wasn't ideal, but he'd resorted to it before, or at least provided a way for others to, such as Rachel in regards to Judge Faden. But what did he have to intimidate the villains with? Both were outlaws, stripped of their possession and dignity and confined to Arkham. What leverage did he have in this situation?

Unable to hold back a sigh, he pulled his gloves on, resolving to put the whole thing out of his mind until after tonight. Ignoring the problem didn't make it go away, but it certainly lowered his blood pressure. He reached for his cape, lying out on the stone table along with his belt and weaponry, only to find it tugged out of his grasp the moment his fingers closed around it. Stunned, he looked up, to find the Joker holding his cape, expression unreadable.

"What are you doing down here?"

The Joker only raised the cape, waving it back and forth, a smirk on his face that didn't fully reach his eyes. "Finders keepers."

And then he ran.

In theory, Bruce should have been able to catch him in an instant. This was _his _cave, after all, and he was the one who knew the uneven, slick floor by heart, to the point where he could walk it without falter even when half-blind from fatigue or a black eye or remnants of pepper spray from a misunderstanding citizen he'd been trying to save. In theory, the whole mess would have ended right here.

That, however, was only theory. In practice, he stood there gaping in confusion for one second too long and in that second, the Joker gained too much of a lead. Through his bewilderment, Bruce realized as he ran how ridiculous this was. The Joker was stunning uncoordinated on level ground, let alone a cave. He was fast, yes, and lean, but he shouldn't be able to zigzag around like some sort of depraved gazelle the way he was doing now.

Illogical or not, the Joker reached the elevator before him, managing to close the gate and activate the machine just as Bruce arrived, still waving the cape. His smile seemed more genuine now. Cursing, Bruce reached for his grappling gun, only to find it absent. He hadn't put the utility belt on before the Joker appeared.

He had no recourse but to wait, then. While the Joker got upstairs and accomplished whatever evil he'd set out to make. Bruce had no idea what evil could be done with his cape, of all things, but he knew that whatever it was, he wouldn't like it.

Yes, Bruce, as of late, had the harder life after all.

* * *

The Joker stood beside the piano and considered his options. He still had no idea what he wanted to say, or where. Well, an idea of where. He wanted to be outside more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life. The Joker had never felt more trapped than in these past few days, and while he knew that had less to do with being inside and more to do with Bats and Jonny fucking with his mind, he wanted out.

He glanced down at the cape in his hand, tore the hem loose. He hadn't planned on using it for any purpose when he grabbed it, beyond getting Batsy's attention. But there was no reason it couldn't serve a purpose now.

Remembering that Batman was surely on his way up at this very moment, the Joker made a small tear toward the bottom of the cape, taking a few threads in his hand and pulling them lose. He half-ran out of the room, letting the threads fall behind him. More Hansel and Gretel than breathless chase now, but at least Bats would know where he'd gone.

* * *

Bruce was reminded, as he followed the Joker's trail, of exactly how much he hated the clown. If he was going to break out or make a murder attempt or whatever, he ought to do it, and not drag things out. But then again, asking the Joker to do something simply was like asking a fish to breathe on land. He followed the thread, running, and pausing at each corner in case the Joker had set up an ambush.

He hadn't. What he had done, as Bruce discovered when the trail came to an end, was go to the balcony of the second floor built to over look the back yard, and stand on top of the railing, one balancing act away from falling two stories to the grass below. "Get down."

The Joker, who, not content to risk his safety by merely standing, was actually pacing on the railing, stopped suddenly, turning to face him. "I'm not a dog." Then he seemed to think about it. "Well, I am, but not like _that_. You can't bark orders at me and expect me to follow them. Don't treat me like an animal."

"Then stop acting like one."

"Doing it again." What remained of the cape was in his hands, twisting round and round as he somehow stayed upright. "You're so—so like _everybody _else, do you know that? But not, at the same time. Every time I look at you, I don't understand. How you can be so complete-making, but so…black and white."

Wonderful. He was making even less sense than usually, and one bad distribution of his weight away from serious injury. The fall shouldn't kill him from that height, but knowing the Joker, he'd probably land on his neck just to be obstinate. Even if he didn't, he could easily break a leg or an arm, and that'd be two captives in need of medical attention. "If you don't get down, you're going to fall."

"And bounce back. I always do. Have ya noticed? Jonny did. I think he was jealous. Scarecrows don't bounce."

Either the Joker had completely lost it, or he was doing a flawless job of pretending to. Bruce couldn't tell, and either way, he was stuck keeping the man from hurting himself, because of that rule he sometimes hated so much despite its necessity. "Do you want to break your leg?"

"If you'd sign the cast. You don't care, anyway. You've never cared about anything, beyond your precious city." His fists clenched around the cape, and for a moment, Bruce thought he was about to throw it. He wondered if he could move forward without sending the Joker over the edge. "I guess you'd have to not care, since I care so much. You wouldn't care if you didn't need me to make your, uh, calls would you? You wouldn't be here."

Something about the falter in his voice gave Bruce pause. "Are there even any explosives, Joker?"

"Don't remember." He stared up at the sky, stalking back and forth like a caged animal. Which, in a way, he was. This was the least restrained, physically, that he'd been since coming here, but it was obvious that he was still confined. "How did we get here?"

"You took my cape and ran."

He gave a very un-Jokerlike laugh. "Ha ha, Bats. I mean, _this._" He gestured outwards, very nearly losing his balance. Bruce stepped forward, but the clown steadied himself before he could get any closer. "You. Me. The Dark Knight and the Clown Prince of Crime. Batman. The Joker. Bruce Wayne and…whoever this was." He ran his hands down the front of his coat, quickly bringing them back out for balance. "In the same house. Without masks or paint or anything between us. This—this should have been _so much fun._ I don't think it was. Do you?"

"I think that if you want to talk, you need to get off of the railing."

"Which way?"

"Joker—"

"No, really. That's what it takes, isn't it, to get your attention? Suffering?" He looked to the darkened yard below, eyes gauging something. "That's why Jonny gets all the cuddling and the stuffed animals and fun. Is that what it takes to make you acknowledge what we have? You need a princess to sweep off her feet."

"You're unbelievable." He was _jealous _of Jonathan Crane? Jealous of the man that had to be drugged for an indefinite period of time to keep from tearing himself apart? Revolting. Of course, that's what everything about the Joker was. "Crane—"

"I know, I know." For the first time since seeing the clown cry, there was an expression he'd never seen on the Joker's face. "Believe me. I don't wanna know. But it doesn't change things. How do people _stand _this, Bats?"

"Sympathy?"

"Any of it. _All _of it." He brought his hands to his temples, cape brushing against his face, rubbing as if to force his thoughts out. "Your stupid mansion—lair—cave—thing, it brings it all out and makes it all…fuzzy. And the thing about static is that it _hurts._ You wouldn't think so, would you? I mean, it looks like snow, and everyone likes snow. I used to play it in. I think. But this…I actually _care_, maybe. What the hell did you do?"

"I didn't do anything." He'd been trying to move forward during the rant, grab the Joker when he was unaware and put him back on solid ground, but he was forced to halt as the Joker turned to face him, expression accusing. "This is what people feel. You're human, as much as you try to deny that. Being here might have brought it out, but it was always under the surface."

"Well, put it _back,_" the Joker snapped. "I didn't _ask _for this."

"No one asks for it. But you can't fight it forever." Against his better judgment and prior experience, Bruce felt what pity. The same pity one felt for vermin dying in a trap, but pity nonetheless. "You've tried. Look how that turned out. You can't deny your humanity, Joker."

"I can try."

"And end up on balconies."

"I'm not afraid of heights," he said, with a wry smile. "Or falling. This…this I can't do. Nobody can."

"Yes, they can. They do. Otherwise we wouldn't be here, because everyone would have fallen by now." Good God, this was surreal. If someone had told him just two weeks ago that he'd end up trying to talk the Joker down from what seemed to be a suicide attempt, he'd have laughed in their faces. It didn't help that far too much of him wanted the clown to off himself.

"But those are just people." He waved a hand dismissively, struggled to stay upright. Bruce took another step forward on instinct. "They haven't seen colors. They don't know. We're not like that."

"Yes, we are. We're human. We're symbols, but we're the same underneath."

He shook his head again, smile going sad, as if Bruce was the one who had it all wrong. "I'm dead underneath, Bats. We've talked about this."

"You're not dead. You're…hiding. Come down from there and you won't have to hide."

"Why do you act like you care, Batman? If I broke my neck, your hands would be clean. Hell, they'd call it community service."

"Because that's not what I _want_, all right?" He ignored the part of himself that did, and went on. "That's not what I fight for. Look, just get _down. _You don't have to hide like this. You don't have to be alone." Without thinking about it, he extended his hand, stopping it in front of the Joker.

The Joker stared, as if he'd never seen someone reach out before. He looked almost afraid, though not the panicked way he had before dissociated. More like a child about to get a shot. Bruce had never seen the Joker look that way and while he was still figuring out how to react to that, the Joker spoke, his voice so faint Bruce could barely here it over the crickets in the yard. "Do you mean it?"

"Yes." He struggled to keep the exasperation from his voice. And the astonishment from his expression, when the Joker brought his own hand forward, shaking, and held Bruce's, so tightly he could feel it through the Kevlar. He half-jumped, half-stepped down, wrenching his hand free and throwing his arms around Bruce in a rib-crushing hug the instant his feet were on the floor.

And before Bruce could react to that, the Joker pulled back and leaned in again, bringing his lips to Bruce's. Immediately, he brought his hands up to push the clown away, but it proved unnecessary, as the Joker shoved _him _back after a second of contact. Well, considerably longer than a second, but still faster than Bruce could react through the shock He licked his lips, giving Bruce a grin that did reach his eyes, and the light in them was anything but mad or unsure. "_Thanks_, Batsy. As parting gifts go, that one was swell."

He realized what the Joker was going to do the second before he did it. "Don't—"

"Not that your concern isn't deeply touching, love, but the thing is? I _like _being me." The Joker turned, vaulting over the railing and Bruce ran forward, fingers grasping to close on the coat, but they didn't close fast enough and hit only empty air as the Joker fell forward, laughing all the while.

* * *

The fall lasted forever and only a fraction of a second, the sensation the closest he'd ever come to flying. It reminded him of that night in the skyscraper, when for those few glorious seconds, the Joker had truly believed Bats would let him die, and he was fine with that, as long as it was his Bat doing it. He was free now, and nothing was ever going to pin him again.

He'd make sure of that.

Like a cat, he managed to land on his feet, which hurt rather a lot more than he'd hoped it would. He was fairly sure he felt one or two cracks, but the burn was wonderful and the first spark of joy he'd had in these past few days, so he welcomed it. Besides, nothing was sticking out through the skin, so he took that to mean he could get up and run, ignoring the fire in his legs as he did. He wasn't about to let Bats get him again so soon, after all.

* * *

There was no trace of the Joker.

There should have been, but somehow, Bruce wasn't surprised to find there was not, even after searching for over two hours. By the time he'd gotten outside, the man was gone, any hint of his direction masked by darkness. He'd probably planned it that way.

Hell, he'd probably planned all of this. Bruce found himself wondering exactly how much had been truth and how much a lie, before asking himself what difference it made at all. The Joker had played him, as he played so many others, and Bruce, being a willing victim, had no one to blame but himself.

So, much as he'd been planning to do before his cape was stolen, he put the whole thing out of his mind until morning and went to bed.


	55. Broadcast

AN: This particular fic is coming to a close, and I know the end is cliffhanger-y, but don't worry, there's another story to come, and I hope to have it posted within the week, if the job and the kitten aren't too distracting!

A huge thank you to all my readers and reviewers. I never expected to top four hundred reviews, let alone over seven hundred. And extra thanks for all the anonymous reviewers; I can't respond to your comments, but many of your reviews are among the best I get and I appreciate all your feedback.

* * *

He found Crane the next morning hiding under the kitchen table, not quite crying but very close.

"Jonathan?" Why was it that he only remembered things like locking the door to the man's room after it was too late? Though to be fair, he had been incredibly distracted last night. Bruce tended not to be fair when judging himself, however. "Are you all right?" Well, _that_ was a stupid question.

"Gone."

"What?"

"He's gone. The one with the…" he trailed off, apparently at a loss for the word, and raised his hands to his face, indicating the Joker's scars. "Woke up alone."

"I know." Oh, this was going to be fun to explain. "He left."

Crane flinched, staring over his shoulder wide-eyed at something that wasn't there. The sedatives were definitely in the process of wearing off, if they hadn't gone completely by now. "When's he—" flinch—  
"coming back?"

Bruce decided to take the easy way out and not explain at all. The truth would only terrify his remaining captive more, if he even understood it. "Can you come out from under the table?"

"No." He tightened his arm around his body, and Bruce saw that he'd brought the teddy bear with him.

"Just for a second? I have medicine that you need to take."

He shook his head, pushing himself back against the far leg of the table.

"It'll make you less scared."

"Not coming out."

"Okay." He knelt down and crawled under the table beside the man, which wasn't hard, given its size. He took the syringe from his pocket that he placed there before heading downstairs, uncapped it. "Can I see your arm?"

He shook his head again, and the force with which he did it combined with the sight of the doctor in Bruce's overlarge clothes made him look like a small child. The teddy bear didn't exactly detract from the image, either.

"It'll help, Jonathan. And it'll only take a few seconds. I promise."

Crane didn't extend either hand, but he didn't flinch away when Bruce reached out. He was able to push the man's sleeve back and inject him before he could decide to panic again. Crane went limp almost immediately afterward, and Bruce carefully moved him from under the table to one of the kitchen chairs. Once he was satisfied that Crane was balanced enough not to fall back to the floor, he went to the cabinets to retrieve a glass, and filled it with water, removing the pills from his pocket with his spare hand. Getting him to take the pills was far easier than getting him to relax enough for the injection had been. "How do you feel?"

Crane yawned in response.

"Do you want to lie down?"

He gave the faintest of nods, and the faintest of jerks when Bruce picked him up. "The bear…"

"I've got him." This was another of those surreal moments he'd never have believed could happen until he was experiencing it. Comforting Jonathan Crane by giving him his childhood teddy bear? It was almost easier to believe that he'd ended up being kissed by the Joker twice during this fiasco. Almost.

He brought Crane to the nearest room with both a sofa and a television, laying him out on the couch. Bruce sat on the floor, back against the cushions of the sofa and legs stretched out beneath the coffee table as he flipped the television on. The police scanner in his room had revealed nothing when he'd turned it on upon waking, explosions or otherwise, but that had been at least half an hour ago. The news might have information by now on something he'd missed.

Even if it didn't, he'd been satisfied with any suspicious activity to investigate. It beat sitting around brooding over the events of last night, or figuring out just how he was going to explain this latest development to Alfred, when the butler got back from grocery shopping or whatever it was that he did on Saturday mornings.

Apparently, the news did have new information. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or horrified to see the giant caption across the bottom of GCN's screen reading "Joker Takes News Anchor Hostage." Well, at least now he had a starting point.

"—invaded the home of _Gotham Live _host Summer Gleeson at five this morning, forcing her to interview him using a handheld camera in order to make a tape addressing the Batman," an anchorman was saying, as the words "Breaking News" flashed below him. "Though held at knifepoint, Gleeson sustained no serious injuries, and is now under police protection. After creating the tape, the Joker left her bound in her kitchen with the video, instructing Gleeson to—"

Hell. And here he thought he'd been badly off. Wonderful. There was no start to the day like a reminder that the most dangerous terrorist Gotham had ever seen was still at large and terrorizing the citizens. All because Batman had failed to realize that the Joker was mad enough to risk serious injury to escape. Looking back, that should have been obvious. _Would _have been, if the damn clown wasn't so good at playing conflicted.

Sometime during Bruce's reverie, the anchorman had left the screen, replaced by the grainy video footage that signified one of the Joker's tapes. This time, the backdrop was not a warehouse or undisclosed location, as was so often the case, but a kitchen, of what appeared to be one of Gotham's apartments. A nicer one, it seemed, though the quality of the footage made it difficult to tell and the dishes stacked in the sink detracted from the surroundings a bit. The camera was focused on two chairs pulled away from the table, the one on the right empty.

Summer Gleeson sat in the one on the left, hands tied behind the chair and herself clad what appeared to be sock monkey pajamas. For the first time Bruce had ever seen, her thick red hair wasn't perfectly tamed and framing her face, but sticking out every which way, as if she'd just been dragged out of bed, which she almost certainly had. She wasn't crying, but even with the poor quality of the camera, it was clear that she had been, and the laceration visible on her throat, bleeding very slightly, had likely played a part in making her stop.

There was a voice from out of view, nasal and perverse, muttering to itself as the camera focused. "No…no…almost…_there_!" There was a pause, a sound of footsteps, and the Joker shuffled into view. Shuffled as opposed to walked, as both his legs, from what Bruce could see under the purple corduroys the Joker had recovered, were enclosed in walking casts. He sat down in the chair beside Summer, a knife glistening in his hand that he had pointed in her direction, though a good distance away. She flinched.

"Good morning, Gotham! Oh, wait…that's not your show, is it?" he asked, glancing at Summer and looking away again before she could stammer out an answer. "Whatever. As you can see, uh, Summer here was kind enough to give me an interview to address all your _burning _questions. Well, I _say _all of them, but really, I couldn't care less who gets any of it besides Batman. So the rest of you should consider yourselves lucky just to see this. But I digress. Summer, feel free to ask anything you like. I'm an open book."

Summer looked as if she'd much rather faint or run for her life than ask the clown anything. "I—please—don't—"

"You sound a _lot _less eloquent in person, you know that?" He tilted his head as if seeing her for the first time. "It can't be in the editing, 'cause your show's live…got a teleprompter or something?"

She shook her head, tears sliding down her face.

"Hey. There's no crying in news casting. Come on, anything at all. Here, we'll start with something easy." He raised his feet, swinging them back and forth. "Aren'tcha curious about this?"

"What—"

"_So _glad you asked, Summer. Your concern is touching. Almost makes me sorry about the whole, uh, breaking in and tying you up thing." He leaned to the side, glancing at her hands behind the chair. "Are those too tight?"

"I—"

"Fantastic. _Anyway, _there's no cause for alarm, Gothamites. They're only incomplete fractures, so I'll be bringing my kind of humor to your neighborhoods again soon."

"Wh—" Summer's voice broke, and she swallowed, tried again. "Where did you get the casts?"

"Wonderful question. You're so much more _talkative _than Mike Engel was, ya know that? All he did was hyperventilate. Pathetic. Back to your lovely query, though. I happen to know a very good if unlicensed doctor. Whose sisters make excellent cookies, I must add. I'd recommend them, but then they'd get all arrested and stuff, so yeah."

Summer alternated between staring at the camera and looking at the Joker without meeting his eye. "How did it happen?"

"You know what they say about animals in traps gnawing their legs off?"

"You were trapped?"

"I'm…not entirely sure, actually. I mean, I was definitely a prisoner, but I kinda liked it. Sometimes. You can't imprison the willing, as they say. Or is that rape?"

Summer's face briefly contorted with a terrified disgust as she apparently imagined the Joker as a willing rape victim. "Who—"

"Well, Batman, of course. Honestly, Summer, who else could keep me hostage? We've all seen how good Arkham and Gotham's finest are at that. Besides, I wouldn't enjoy being stuck with them, would I?"

"And you—you enjoyed being the Batman's captive?"

He blinked, as if the question was ridiculous. "Wouldn't you?"

"I—"

"Oh, he was a complete gentleman the entire time. Except for the beatings and, uh, psychological torture and such. But hey, I love pain, so it's all good."

"And—" She glanced back to the camera, confusion mixing with fear. "You're making this video for him?"

"Yep."

"But you were with him—w-why didn't you just tell him in person? Weren't you enjoying yourself?"

"To a point. But after a while? All that morality crap gets so _boring_, Summer. It's like living in an educational kid's show. Only more annoying." He licked his lips. "Plus, Bats can be _stunningly _stupid about things. Such as his ri_dic_ulously obvious lust for me. I figured giving him some distance might help him realize the truth."

Summer looked torn between sheer panic and disbelief at the entire story. To an outsider, it must have seemed ridiculous. While opinions were still mixed throughout Gotham on Batman's status as hero or villain, even after the truth about the murders he'd taken the blame for had come to light, it was known from the rare witnesses to his brutal fights that there was no love lost between the Bat and the Joker. At least, not on the Dark Knight's side. So the idea of the Batman taking him in, for whatever reason, would seem absurd. Bruce only wished the entire thing was as false as it sounded.

The Joker caught sight of Summer's less than accepting expression, eyes narrowing. "You don't believe me?"

"I—"

"You what?" The knife was against her throat, drawing new blood from the cut as she screamed. "And whatever you're going to say, it had better not be idiotic, or this is gonna turn into a snuff film."

Bruce found his hands tightly clenching the carpet, even though he knew from the report that Summer got out unharmed. At least, physically. He was surprised that he hadn't heard Crane panic yet, given that the man could recognize images on TV and could very possibly recognize the Joker. A glance backwards showed him that Crane had fallen asleep.

"No, I—" Summer's voice brought his attention back to the television. "I just—I don't understand w-why you left! You—you seem like the t-type to s-stay if you were bored, m-make things interesting." She sobbed, the sob turning to a scream as the Joker turned the blade and ran the flat end along her throat.

"Re_lax_, Summer." He lowered his knife and turned to the camera. "See, I left with the intent to kill Batman. The boring half, anyway, I mean if I killed all of him, there'd be no point in living, right?" He turned to Summer, and once again looked away before she could speak. "Right. Well, that was my plan _before_ I left. But then things got all weird and white noisy and not so fun, and the thing is, I don't wanna kill him just yet. This is a mental health day, of sorts. Or week, or month, or whatever. No point in going after him if I'm off kilter, is there?"

This time, when he turned to Summer, he actually waited for a reply. "I…guess not."

"Exactly. So, just thought I'd let you know, Bats. Last night? Wasn't the end of things. This isn't over by a long shot. And once the vacation's over? You're dead. At least, the part I don't like. As soon as I can walk again, and, ya know, _not_ care about scarecrows and other crap like that. Wanna sign us off, Summer?"

She stared. "W-what?"

"_And _I gotta do everything myself." He sighed, standing. "It figures. That's all, folks." The screen switched to static before darkening completely, and then returning to the news report Bruce was no longer watching. So the Joker still believed he could kill Bruce Wayne and leave Batman intact…but he was going on hiatus before he tried?

So being here had shaken him, and badly. It wasn't just an act. Probably. The Joker was out of sorts enough to put things on hold until he rewove his mind into whatever passed for sanity where he was concerned. Whatever humanity lingered in the man had been touched, and Bruce was equal parts relieved and disturbed. Disturbed because, as much as he knew that the Joker was human, he hated to think of him that way. It made listening to the insanity he spouted that much more tempting.

But at the same time, it was a reminder that he had the power to twist the Joker as much as the Joker had the power to twist him. A power that could be dangerous, but incredibly helpful if kept in check. And if the Joker was trying to lie low, it would make subduing him that much easier—especially with the broken legs—though finding him would be extremely difficult.

At the very least, it seemed the problem of the Joker had been delayed for a bit.

He heard a faint sigh behind him, and turned his head to watch Crane shift in his sleep. And the realization of his current situation leapt out from whatever rock it had been hiding behind and slapped him in the face. The Joker might be dealt with for the moment, but there was still the very pressing issue of the mad doctor prisoner in his house. The mad doctor who knew his secret and would tell it in a heartbeat if he thought it would give him the slightest advantage, which it would in so very many situations.

Just what the hell was Bruce supposed to do with him?

* * *

AN: Summer Gleeson is a news anchor/talk show host from _Batman: The Animated Series._

An incomplete fracture is a fracture in which the bones don't fully break. "There's no crying in [baseball]" comes from the film _A League of Their Own._

The mention of Joker's unlicensed doctor friend comes from a previous fic, _Act Like We Are Fools, _in which the Joker has a back alley doctor with two sisters, one of whom is the Joker's seamstress. When the Joker comes over, they tend to eat cookies and play Dungeons and Dragons and things.


End file.
